


Silent Will

by RangoAteMyBaby (FormallyKnownAsFreya)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Silent Hill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Silent Hill Fusion, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Crossover, Dominance, Gay, Graphic descriptions, It'll get pretty heated LATER, M/M, Masochism, Murder Porn, Murder and Death, Sadism, Slow Burn, Submission, other dimensions, psychotic breaks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 14:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10946079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FormallyKnownAsFreya/pseuds/RangoAteMyBaby
Summary: The moment Will Graham brutally shot Garret Jacob Hobbs to death reality has been changing around him. His hallucinations happen with more frequency and his dreams become stranger than usual to a point where he feels he's not dreaming at all. That maybe he's going to another place entirely when he sleeps. The place is full of familiar faces and frightening situations that seem to be spurring him forward...to discover something. Something dark. Sinister. And deep within the heart of Silent Hill.





	1. The First Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vain_flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vain_flower/gifts).



### PROLOGUE:

The bullets leave the chamber faster than his ears can register the cacophonic bang resulting from breaking the sound barrier. How many shots are there? Two? Three? It's hard to tell. After the first one, all sound is dulled by his ringing ears and the realization of what he’s just done.

_I shot a man._

_He was a serial killer._

_He had a family._

_Half of which he killed and who knows_ _  
_ _if the other half is going to make it._

Even while deafened, Will feels Garret Jacob Hobbs’ lead-ridden body hit the linoleum floor with a reverberating thud. Blood already oozing its way out through the threads of his shirt, dripping and pooling around the slackened body like melted ice cream on summer pavement. Or the coating of a candied apple. Sticky red but lacking in sweet decadence.

 _I did this. This is what a human life_ _ending  
looks like. _ _This is what murder feels like._

_It’s justice. It isn’t murder._

_Isn’t it?_

He can’t focus on that now, all that matters is stopping the bleeding from Hobbs’ daughter’s neck. Pressure on the wound. Wait for paramedics. Why won’t she stop bleeding? His hands fidget, shaking against her gasping throat. He’s literally holding her life in his hands when his eyes meet Hobbs’ again.

“See?” the man manages, barely above a whisper.

_See...what?_

What is Will supposed to see? Other than what it’s like to feel like a murderer. To feel like a killer. To see the rushing panic in Abigail Hobbs’ eyes as her blood spatters the kitchen floor like an animal at slaughter. To feel like he is the butcher killing her as his slick with blood hands won’t stay put on her neck. But Hobbs has no answer. His eyes just go dull and his body slackens. Dead.

_See?_

It was never his intention that anyone would die. Not Hobbs. Not his wife. And definitely not this young girl. He just wants to save her, save someone. God, there’s so much blood. Hannibal Lecter assists just in time as Will’s panic begins to set in at the notion that he’s going to fail her. His hands exacting, Hannibal calmly removes Will’s twitching fingers to place a palm over her bloody neck and securely holds it there until help can arrive. And he remains collected, stoic even, in opposition to Will who’s still having difficulty breathing at a regular rate.

If Hannibal wasn’t here...he shudders at the thought.

The EMTs take Abigail Hobbs away, her prognosis: better than dead. All Will can do is stare through his glasses speckled with the late Garret Jacob Hobbs’ blood. Like a dusty window looking into a dirty, evil world, one he didn’t want to see right then.

“You’ve blood on your hands, Will,” Hannibal’s voice echoes next to him, waking him from his stupor only to jab painfully at the guilt in his stomach.

_Blood on my hands._

“Here,” Hannibal adds and presses a fresh wipe into his hand that he must have gotten from an EMT.

_Right. Literally blood on my hands._

Wiping them does little to alleviate the strain in his gut, the uneasy feeling of illness wanting to creep its way out of his throat. He doesn’t feel clean but it’s nice to get the tacky substance off his fingers and out of the creases of his hands.  He removes his glasses and swipes at the lenses but all that does is make it worse. It just smears the blood on his view of the flashing lights and rushing crime scene techs. All a very real reminder of the crime that transpired there.

_It was murder. I can’t kid myself._

_You were saving someone._ _You saved her  
from him, didn't you?  _ _And others too._

 _Nice bedtime story...but it_ _doesn’t  
change what I am.  _ _What I did._

He won’t sleep well tonight. Or any night ever again, he thinks pessimistically. Yes, he gets into the minds of killers every day but he’s never actually...pulled the trigger. Two fingers of whiskey won’t be enough tonight.

Hannibal doesn’t stay much longer, opting to join Abigail on her ride to the hospital. He is a doctor but how he could help is beyond Will. This leaves him alone at the house of the Minnesota Shrike, surrounded by noise and bustling cops. Collecting evidence, making assumptions, commenting on the depravity of it all. But they don’t have to live with it in their heads every waking and sleeping moment.

_I envy them their blissful ignorance._

_But you saved someone today didn’t you?_  
_Wasn’t that worth it, Will?_

_Mocked by my own thoughts._

Even with Hannibal long gone down the road to whatever hospital awaited Abigail, Will feels like the psychiatrist is still there. Standing next to him. His eyes contemplative. His mouth slightly pursed as he composes a question in his mind. A deft hand adjusting the cuff of his suit.

“How do you feel, Will?”

He can almost hear his analytical psycho spiel for tomorrow. For when he inevitably drops by out of regret, or sadness, or whatever conglomeration of emotions beats him down in the night, just to get some of Hannibal’s insight. Advice on how to handle this...sickening feeling of guilt.

“I feel like shit, Dr. Lecter,” he finally answers, hours later while seated on his bed at home.

The shower did little to help. It hid the evidence of the crime but not the dirty feeling covering his mind, like an invisible veil clinging to his skin. Unseeable but the feeling lingers on his body with each step and breath. Even the dogs give him pitying whines as he drinks his nightcap. And then another. And then one more.  

Anything to drown out the sounds of sirens like screams outside his windows. Anything to reduce his vision to blurs and base shapes instead of the very clear image of Hobbs staring him down. Asking him if he _sees_. Blood pouring out of each hole Will put in him. Ten holes. God he shot the man ten times before he went down.  Above and beyond what was necessary to end him. He just couldn’t seem to stop.

 _Because I was afraid._ _  
_ _For myself. And others._

_Is that so?_

_Yes._

_Perhaps part of you enjoyed it._

_No. I couldn’t help it._ _  
_ _I couldn’t stop._

 _You_ ** _couldn’t_** _help_ _yourself._ __  
_You_ ** _wouldn’t_** _stop._ __  
_They aren’t the same, Will._ __  
Think about it more carefully

 

“Shut up, Doctor,” he grumbles, thinking the last line of thoughts sounds vaguely like him.

He drinks down another gulp, this time foregoing the glass altogether and taking the bottle by the neck. His head splits at the roaring sounds of more sirens and swirling vision. Alcohol probably makes it worse but at this point he has no other respite. His only hope as he tucks in is that the drink will allow sleep without a single thought in his head and that he’ll wake on a new day with only copious amounts of vomiting to look forward to.

He wouldn’t have to think about murderers. Or girls impaled on antlers. Or each of the deafening shots that went into Garret Jacob Hobbs. And most of all, he wouldn’t have to ruminate on the idea, the dubious notion, that only one of those voices could be right about how it felt to kill a man.

And he wasn’t entirely sure which one it was.

 

###  CHAPTER 1: The First Night

 

Fog. It's the only thing he sees upon waking. There’s so much of it. Thick enough to hide everything beyond a few feet. No shadows in the distance, just never ending fog, inserting a certain uneasiness in his body right down to his toes.

All color is gone as well. Nothing but greys and whites floating through the air. And now he realizes it’s not so much fog anymore as it is ashes or spores drifting through space to conceal all that is beyond. He wants to cover his mouth, to stop breathing it in, but figures it matters little. It’s not real.

_Where am I dreaming?_

A single step makes hardly a sound. The atmosphere feels muffled, so much so that even breathing feels muted. The ‘hello?’ from his mouth doesn’t seem to travel more than a yard and trying for a louder one gets much the same response. No sound from any direction.

Alone.

His foot plunges down with a little splash. Looking shows water surrounding him, no more than foot deep. The fog doesn’t clear by much but enough that he can see where he is. The river. The one he always visits in his dreams when in need of relief. The familiarity brought him small comfort.

Sound begins to melt back into existence, slowly with a ripple at a time. Running water. Grumbling bedrock as he takes a step. The swish of water as his boots cut through the bend. Color returns only slightly to give the dirt and muck under the current a brown tint. The fog dissipates enough to show the bank of the river, thick with dark grasses and leafless shrubs.

Everything is colorless and dead. The comfort he felt from recognizing the place disappears and even more so when a bright new color catches his eye. A streaming line of red travels towards him in the water, small at first but growing in thickness and opacity as he goes to his knees to inspect closer. His fingers swirl through the water before he brings one to his lips with a lick.

Blood.

It's odd he admits but not out of the ordinary.  He’s had worse dreams, making this relatively tame. No sooner does he shrug it off that something new makes it’s way down the river with the blood. Perfectly cut portions of meat floating down the stream. And now the river grows thicker, more copious with blood. Whatever it is, it’s coming from up river.

He steps forward, sloshing through the rapid current. With each step the water becomes thicker and more crimson the further he goes until the viscosity is much like blood.  It sticks to and stains his pants, sick splashes flinging speckles of red to his fingertips.

On the bank he sees creatures stopping for a drink. Deer bending their heads to the surface and drinking up the ‘water’. They don’t take notice of him or the morbid contents of their drink, only raising their heads on occasion to take in their surroundings, blood dripping from their maws. It’s unsettling to say the least and only now does the strangeness of it all began to affect Will.

A new sound alerts him to something upstream. Chopping noises. The kerplunk of something tossed into the water. A content humming. Coming out of the fog, a table comes into focus with a man standing at it. His body leaning over a large mass splayed out and bloody. Once he’s close enough to see, it’s enough to sicken him.

Garret Jacob Hobbs.

He cuts into the corpse of a young girl, not unlike his daughter. Hair clinging to her neck where she was bled dry. Limbs limp and hanging off the table edge with muscle sections expertly removed. Eyes open with her last begging plea of fear etched on her pretty face. The poor girl slaughtered like a common animal.

Hobbs looks up, noticing Will's approach, and gives him a smile. He gestures for Will to come closer. To see. And Will feels compelled to acquiesce, his feet stepping forward automatically.

But as he approaches he sees a mound. A pile of bodies behind Hobbs, stripped of nearly all the usable flesh. More girls, but these have something written in all caps, carved deep into them. 'NOT HER’.

“Abigail…” Will remembers her name with a whisper. “They’re not Abigail…”

Garrett Jacob Hobbs suddenly hunches over the body he's working on with a frustrated huff, his energy no longer inviting at the realization that the girl in front of him really isn't her. Isn't the one he wants to carve. He stabs violently down hard into the carcass. His anger at Will palpable for reminding him of this. His hand clutches tight on the handle of the blade, the other grips hard on the table edge as his anger shakes his tense body.

The sirens start again, sudden and sharp, buckling Will down to the ground. He scrambles to protect his hearing. God he can feel the blood rushing to his ears and pouring out from between his fingers. The water churns by their feet and the table darkens to a stark maroon, like it’s being painted with blood. But that isn't what has Will's eyes. The water behind Hobbs bubbles at first like a pot on the boil but it blackens to that of an oily tar pit.

And something rises out of it…

Hobbs doesn't turn. He can't see. The horns rising out of the murky depths. Inky ooze dripping thick off each point of the antlers. A solemn face with eyes solid black just like the rest of his thin starved looking body.

Even with all the noise in his ears and his inability to think clearly Will’s body tells him exactly what to think of this new creature. His skin is riddled with goosebumps, his heart thumps hard in his chest, his legs beg him to run.

_Dangerous. Not safe here._

It steps closer and Will begs his legs to move. Another step brings more screams in his mind, some of them his own, shouting for him to run. The louder it got the further down Will's head went, shaking in pain and fear, until it nearly touches the thick bloody water.

Would the water dull the sharp sirens and screams? Could he drown himself in blood and avoid the wrath of this--monster? What happens if one dies in a dream?

Dizziness and nausea overwhelm him before he can look up to see how close it is. He falls forward with a sick splash, choking on the poisoned river…  
  
*****

With a gasp Will shoots up out of his bed. Coughing and wheezing, he tries to expel the blood not in his lungs, eventually resulting in him bending over the sink heaving up nothing but booze and bile.

_How are you feeling, Will?_

He takes a deep breath, expecting another expulsion but nothing arrives. After a few more relaxing breaths he spits, rinses his mouth and the sink, and looks at himself in the mirror. 

“Alive,” he sighed. “I feel alive, Doctor”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy what you read? Hit that kudos AND leave a comment! Not sure what to say? Tell me what you liked. Write what your favorite sentence or line is. Or maybe tell me about a feeling you experienced while reading. You could just leave a bunch of hearts or incomprehensible keyboard smashes; anything to show you liked what you read and you'd like to see more of it.
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	2. Like a Broken Radio

 

“Go see Hannibal, Will,” presses Alana Bloom during lunch while opening her lunch. A Caesar salad with a bowl of the soup of the day; tomato bisque. Will hasn't much of an appetite, settling on just a basic half sub with nothing but vegetables. After catching Hobbs he’s been averse to eating meat, albeit only temporarily. He has no intention of giving up steak permanently.

When he doesn't answer her, to object or to affirm, she speaks again.

“Seriously Will, even Jack can see you're not back yet. That you're still back at that house,” Alana sighs, poking at her salad before leaving the fork on the table.

“Jack tell you to encourage me to see someone. He worried about his bloodhound?” Will asks, the sarcasm thick in his tone.

“Will,” Alana huffs stressing her disappointment in him. “even if he hadn't asked me I'd have suggested it.”

Dr. Lecter.  
  
Will takes a bite of his sub and chews slowly, digesting her words and his food all at once. The doctor is intelligent and without bias. But if he goes--the findings would go straight back to Jack, he knew. And he hates when the FBI agent interrupts his classes with personal shit. Deeply personal shit. Not that Jack really cared about Will, he cared only for what he could provide for the FBI.

Maybe he'll go. He'd already weighed the thought long before Alana mentioned it. Considered it when the ambulance drove away from Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ home. When Hannibal pressed the wipe into his fingers. When he commented about the blood his hands, which he now feels was an ambiguous comment made on purpose to unsettle him. Or maybe he’s just being paranoid.  It wouldn’t be the first time. Either way, the thought occurred to him.

“Will you think about it at least, Will?” She asks again, a strain of concern in her tone.

The taste of his sub lost all appeal when he thought for a second that it tasted like the bile from the night before. He put it down, a grimace on his face.

“I'll consider it, Alana,” he says, noncommittally. But it's enough for her. She relaxes and starts in on her soup.

Will has to look away while she eats. The second before she dipped her spoon into a bowl of fresh blood. Warm with steam coming off it and the copper smell wafting over to his seat across the table. She sips it, a pleased smile as she swallows it down. He holds in a gag, covering it up with a cough. A moment later it’s gone. Just tomato soup.

Yeah, seeing the doctor might not be so bad an idea. He pops a Klonopin in his mouth and excuses himself to get back to class.

*****

“Interesting,” Hannibal comments, rising from his seat to his desk. He fishes around in a drawer for his notebook and pen. “Do you feel these apprehensive dreams are linked to the death of Garrett Jacob Hobbs?”

“Aren't you supposed to tell me that?” Will shakes his head. “No, it has nothing to do with his death and everything to do with my murdering him. After all...they’re not the same.”

“It was justifiable homicide, Will,” Hannibal reminds him but without much conviction.

_Even he thinks it's murder._

_That's not what he said._

_But he might as well with that tone._

“Guilt rapping on the door, begging to be let in. Even if it stays outside where I can't see it, the sound is there to remind me of its presence,” Will explains. “And that it isn't going away.”

“And what is it that triggers this guilt response in your mind? The role you played in ending his life or your role in depriving his daughter of a father?”

Hannibal doesn't pull his punches, taking a jab right at his insecurities. He barely mentioned his worry about Abigail but it must have shown through his actions the days previous. It was in the way he stopped by the hospital every day. When he called to check on her status. When he looked into family who might take her home.

He does feel guilty about Abigail but that’s only part of it. Just like killing Hobbs is only part of it. No, there is something else he failed to mention from the day before. He even left out that part from his dream.

The exhilaration.

Fear, yes, but more so the cathartic relief of being the one still breathing. The rush from standing there without being full of holes or breathing blood into his lungs. Alive. He felt alive. And that felt good. It felt so good.

_But it shouldn't, I killed a man._

That’s the rub. He feels guilty for not feeling guilty. God his head is a fucking train wreck.

“Is there something you're holding back, Will?” Hannibal asks, a wrinkle of suspicion on his brow.

The man pours a dark green bottle of wine into a crystal clear glass. Two glasses full of red and stopped perfectly at the halfway point. He then passes one to Will before taking a seat.

 _The glass half full. Half empty._ _  
_ _Coincidence? Intentional?_

Damn, he’s overthinking again.

Hannibal swirls the glass slightly and smells it before finally taking a sip. A pleased half smile apparent on his face after savoring the flavor. A good vintage apparently, not that Will would know the difference. He follows suit, taking a sip and thinking about the doctor's question.

Should he hold it back? After all, it’s his problem. Not that he’s handling it particularly well. He drinks more of the wine until it’s gone, then cradles the empty glass between his fingers. Gently rocking it side to side.

“After my dream,” Will starts but hesitates. Hannibal's eyes widen only slightly to indicate he is interested and listening. “I was… When I woke… There was this feeling of relief.”

“To be awake again? That it was all just a dream?”

“No. It was similar to when I shot Hobbs. When I saw him lying there. But I was still standing,” Will explains while placing his glass on the coffee table next to him. “Not happy but not unhappy. I was just so grateful to be…”

Will pauses, unsure if he should admit this particular emotion.

“Alive,” Hannibal finishes. “You shouldn't feel guilty, Will. A normal response after surviving a traumatic event. You appreciate the human experience more fully after witnessing others who did not.”

Normal. That's not a word Will or literally anyone else has ever used to describe himself. And he certainly didn't feel that way, even with Hannibal ascribing him as such.

“It appears this dream is your subconscious’ way of working out those conflicting emotions. It's healthy, nothing to concern yourself with,” Hannibal assured him but still scribbled something his journal. “In fact, Will, I would suggest you use these dreams to your advantage. As it’s a safe way to work through things without overthinking.”

Is that right? He’s just overthinking it? It’ll just work itself out on his own? He doubts it but nods nonetheless. Hannibal gives another semi pleased smile before moving on.

They talk about recent cases and how Jack was checking in on him through Alana. The man only cares about what Will could give him. He has no use for a broken tool. And he does feel broken, not unlike a vintage radio that can only pick up a few channels. One station comes in well enough but the rest result in restless static. Even now all he hears is a constant buzzing in his ears. Louder and louder, drowning out all sound until a hand grips his shoulder startling him.

“Apologies Will. Time's up,” Hannibal gently reminds him before giving him a light pat.

“Right,” blinks sleepily. Where had the time gone? Didn't he just sit down?

“Try to get some rest Will,” Hannibal says as he escorts him to the door. “And consider my proposal.”

The dreams. Use the dreams. What would he gain? Hannibal thought something must be there in that dark place, otherwise he wouldn't suggest it. Insight or understanding. Something...

“I'll try,” Will sighs, grabbing his coat.

Hannibal only nods and bids him good night.

*****

Before going home, Will picks up some fresh treats for his motley crew of adopted dogs. Having to deal with his waking nightmares is stressful enough for him; he can't imagine what it’s like for them. They don't know what’s wrong or how to help other than to lick at his hands and whine.

So he cuts it into pieces and tosses them out to each pup. The fresh meat is a small comfort but one they gladly take. Once they have their fill they lay down for the night. Will takes some aspirin in anticipation of the headache he’s certain to wake with.

“Hope this works,” he says quietly under his breath before laying his head down to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy what you read? Hit that kudos AND leave a comment! Not sure what to say? Tell me what you liked. Write what your favorite sentence or line is. Or maybe tell me about a feeling you experienced while reading. You could just leave a bunch of hearts or incomprehensible keyboard smashes; anything to show you liked what you read and you'd like to see more of it.
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> Writers thrive off the nourishment of your feedback. We devour it for every meal, always hungry for more.
> 
> So don't let us go hungry. Feed the beast.


	3. A Lost Child

It feels as though he's just blinked into sleep before he’s already there. 

The river again. Cold and soaking through his slacks but thankfully devoid of thick sloshing blood. The table Garret Jacob Hobbs was using remains in the water but it's owner and the quarry he'd butchered are gone. The pile of corpses has been moved. Only one remains that can see, impaled upon a tree off the river, marking the beginning of a path into the forest. 

_ Where’s Hobbs? The bodies? _

He has a painful flash of memory of the other visitor from his last visit there.

_ Where’s the creature? _

With nothing to suggest where they've gone, it leaves Will with only one option. Follow Hobbs’ terrible trail markers. He steps from the river and onto the path.

His feet make only light scuff noises as he trudges the dirt path, laden with broken branches and the occasional rock. The fog still ever thick, like breathing in smoke from a fire. A cough rises out of his throat a couple times before he finally gets used to it. Will looks around, trying to spot things off the path but all he manages to see is a steep decline to his right and even steeper incline to his left. No way to climb safely so he doesn’t bother with anything other than the road. 

Another corpse, he notes. This one is impaled on a tree as well, like a crucifixion.  Her head turned down, hands at the wrists limp, hair hanging low to obscure the face. But like the others, carved into the thigh are the words, ‘not her’. 

Despite all the signs of Hobbs’ work, it feels different. Like a sort of cruel imitation and not just an unpleasant sight. 

‘...Will Graham…’

Will jolts his head up suddenly and looks behind him. Was that a whisper? A voice? An animal noise echoes nearby, like something pushing it’s way through the brush but there’s nothing to see. 

‘...back at that house…….your friend…’

“Alana?” Will asks just as more voices join in. 

A bird screeches overhead but nowhere in sight. Jack's deep baritone commenting on his progress. The scream of a dying rabbit. Hannibal analyzing calmly. The mumbling crime scene techs. Everything meshes together making a legion of indiscernible voices.

‘...blood on your hands, Will…’

‘...how depraved…’

‘...Please, Will…”

‘See?’

Too many at once. It gives him a headache trying to tune them out. He can’t focus on a single one before another noise joins in. More screeching crows. More bodies on trees, marking the path. Rustling in the foliage, like being chased. Will doesn’t even realize that he’s been running until he loses his footing and trips on pavement, landing with a grunt. He huffs and looks around panicked, but the voices are gone along with whatever was chasing him. 

After bringing himself to his feet he looks around once again. A road. And whatever fog there was dissipated enough that he can see vague shapes in the distance, including a mile marker. Zero. Splendid. It’s as good as any other place to start. Before long he arrives at another sign, this one much larger. It's old and wooden with paint peeling off the edges. It's color is long gone but the message remains.

“Welcome to...Silent Hill? Where the hell is that?” Will shakes his head. Where does it lead?

_ Find out, Will. _

Hannibal’s voice in his head encouraging him to explore further. To keep going. So he walks down the street until the shadows of buildings come into view, taking in all he can see. 

Broken. Everything looks broken, from the windows to the walls, nothing is without cracks or peeling paint. Some look as though a mortar had gone off inside but it was far more likely it imploded from weak supports. Corroded pipes that don't even drip any longer, the water long since dried up. Old and abandoned. A ghost town. The thought gave him a shiver up his spine. Haunted by his sins--not an attractive prospect. 

“Is someone here? Hello!” Will calls out down the street.

Nothing. Not even the creak of a door or chirp of crickets. At least, until he sees a little head peeking out from behind a corner, accompanied by little fingers on the edge. Someone small. 

“Come out,” Will says gently, approaching the corner slowly. It looks like a girl and a scared one at that. “It’s okay, my name’s Will. I won’t hurt you.”

Her head peeks out further revealing dark eyes. Soft and sad. Hands and feet caked with dirt or maybe ash. Strands of messy blonde hair framing her face. Ridiculously thin, like she hasn't eaten in weeks. Poor thing might break in half under the strain of a stiff breeze.

“Are you lost?” he asks as he kneels.   
  
He wonders who she is. Doesn’t recognize her and can’t recall ever meeting her. If this is his dream she has to represent something or someone.    
  
“Is your name Abigail? Or maybe Alana?”

She shakes her head and continues to stare at him. First looking at his shoes and then his jacket, before bringing her gaze up to his face with curiosity. For a moment it’s almost as if she recognizes him.  The girl steps out and studies his face, her hands raise to touch his cheek with tiny fingers. She blinks with confusion as she looks into his eyes.

“Brolis? Ne...  Jūs nesate pakankamai suaugę, ” she shook her head. “ bet tavo akys, jie yra tie patys akys .  Tiesiog patinka jo.”

“I don’t understand,” he admits, his own brand of confusion apparent on his face. “I’m looking for...I don’t actually know. Something.”

In the reflection of the building’s broken window Will can see; he looks more lost than she does. Who should he look for? Garret Jacob Hobbs? Abigail? Himself? How does all this introspective dream bullshit even work? Will pinches the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh, his head throbbing.  Then he hears the sound of little feet running away. When he looks up she's already two blocks away, looking over shoulder. 

“Wait!” he shouts, clumsily getting to his feet and chasing after her. His own stomping feet and panting breath don’t echo far in the empty streets. Even here it's muffled. He turns into the corner she disappeared down, just missing her turn down another little alley. “Please!”

That’s when Will hears a hard thwack. It stops him in his tracks, that sound. Like a cleaver coming down on a chopping block. No, no, no. He doesn’t want to see what’s behind the next bend anymore. Doesn’t want to see a little girl chopped up. The thwack happens again. And again. Over and over, each strike visibly startling him into nervous shakes. 

He swallows and takes a deep breath before looking around the edge. 

The little girl is there. Standing stock still and looking into a dingy window. He lets out a sigh of relief that the girl is not, in fact, a splatter on the pavement. The sound of the cleaver coming down again jolts him, bringing the anxiety back. The girl doesn’t seem afraid so he pulls himself together with a ragged breath and joins her by the window. 

It’s encrusted with smog and dirt and muck, so much so that he couldn’t see more than shadows on the other side. The outline of an arm reaching high and then slamming down hard on a table. Like a butcher preparing cuts for customers but there's something harsh in each strike. The sound echoes painfully in Will’s head as the cleaver comes down hard, chopping through sinew and marrow. He hears every crack of bone, every tear of meat. It’s so loud he covers his ears to block it out but to no avail. It continues, even louder, making him buckle under the noise. 

_ Hobbs. God damn, Hobbs. _

Dead and still he manages to pain him so. Will’s legs crumple under him and he begins writhing in the alley.

_ God why won’t it stop?  _

Pounding and pounding. He squeezes his eyes shut in the hopes it would help.  

_ Please, I just want to wake up. _

Suddenly, it’s quiet. When he opens his eyes he’s vertical, standing on his porch. The cold air whooshes past, flipping his hair around his face. The moon shines down on him and illuminates the yard.

BAM!

The storm door slams hard into the frame and bounces back, only to slam into the frame a few more times. He takes a deep breath, his hand still on his heart from the scare. It sounded just like...His dogs are wandering about the grasses, doing their business. One approaches and licks his hand, bringing him small comfort.  With a weak smile, Will ruffles the dog’s head and whistles for the others. They all come bounding back and into the house as he holds the door open. He takes a moment to stare out into the wilderness as he latches the door and wonders for a second if something is out there looking back, watching him through the dingy glass. 


	4. A Snack for Persephone

###  CHAPTER 4: A Snack for Persephone

 

Eldon Stammets is finally behind bars, albeit with a bullet in his side. It pleases Will to be able to announce such a thing to Hannibal. That he caught the killer before he could put another body in the ground. Hannibal sits pensively as Will gives him the news. 

“You appear happy, Will,” Hannibal observed. “Due to the second rescue of Abigail Hobbs?”

He’s been thinking about that more than Hannibal could know. There was a moment when his gun was trained on Stammets that he hesitated. The rear sight and front sight lined up with the man’s skull. How easy it would be, to pull the trigger, he thought. He’d done it before to save Abigail...he could do it again, couldn’t he? The rush of taking--saving--a life. 

_ No one has to know, Will. _

But then...it would be murder...not rescue.  The thought didn’t bother him as much as it should have, which gave him a fright. He was frightened by the idea of thinking so casually about death. About murder. 

_ There is no justice in murder. _

It was then he tilted the gun slightly and fired a shot into the man. Through and through but it dropped him. He gave off some of his serial killer spiel as Will moved Abigail’s gurney away from the man. He didn’t want anyone getting that close to her again. She’s been through enough. 

But that feeling lingers. The feeling of what could have been. It could have been...glorious.

“Yes,” Will nods absently after a moment. “I’m glad she’s safe again.”

“You have that same look of guilt in your eyes, Will,” Hannibal notes and scribbles into a notebook. “Is there something other than the successful apprehension of Eldon Stammets weighing on your mind?”

“I’m fine,” Will assures him, but it’s rehearsed. He’s said these words before. To any and all who try to pry too deep into his thoughts.

“Denying the truth will only bring more stress into your life, personal and professional,” Hannibal reminds him. He stands and gestures Will to follow him towards the kitchen. Will stands and does so. Once in the shining clean kitchen, Hannibal slips the apron over his head to rest on his neck and then ties the waist strings. 

“You’re concerned for my personal life?” Will asks as Hannibal pulls a bowl out from a low cupboard and begins filling it with water from the sink. He places it down and sharpens a paring knife.

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal responds, not missing a beat. The good doctor pulls a fruit from a basket and carefully cuts the top off of it. He then begins cutting in sweeping lines down the sides of the red flesh. “My professional obligation is to assure Jack that you’re capable of continuing to work, by giving advice on how to handle your emotional issues. That being said…”

Hannibal places the knife down and gently digs his fingers into the fruit, splitting it while in the bowl of water. Little red jewels drop from the flesh of the fruit and sink towards the bottom. Pomegranate seeds. Will finally recognizes the innards. Carefully he removes the seeds until the fruit husk is empty. He tosses the skin into the sink before starting the process again with a second pomegranate. The whole event is mesmerizing and Will blinks himself alert when Hannibal begins to speak again.

“My personal obligation is as a friend who understands how difficult this is for you. It is my hope that by speaking plainly and openly, that I can ease any discomfort or unease you’re feeling,” Hannibal smiles a little as his hands pour out the excess water and pats dry the seeds. He deposits them into another, more decorative, bowl before offering them to Will. “Pomegranate seeds, Will? They are high in antioxidants and help lower cholesterol.”

Will eyes the bowl but doesn’t reach for any. They look like solid little bulbs of blood. So red and vibrant. 

“Help yourself, Will,” Hannibal comments as he places the bowl down on the center island and cleans up the mess from preparation. 

“Headaches. I can’t sleep. And I’m still having hallucinations about Hobbs,” Will admits, leaning onto the counter a little to peer into the pile of pomegranate seeds. “Visions laden with guilt…I kill him over and over...I…can’t stop.”

“Can’t?” Hannibal hangs on his wording.

“Won’t…” Will corrects himself with some difficulty. He lowers his voice as much as possible for his next declaration. “I shouldn’t but...I  _ want  _ to kill him. I... _ enjoy _ it.”

“Then why choose guilt?” Hannibal asks. 

“I shouldn’t feel good about killing him...it’s wrong,” Will explains but without much conviction.

Hannibal makes no comment on that as he cleans the knife. 

“And then there’s the dreams,” Will clears his throat, trying to change the subject. “I feel like I’m going somewhere else. A hollow world of silence. It’s not every night but frequently enough to be distressing. Hobbs is there. He’s leading me somewhere, I think.”

Hannibal rinses clean the bowl and dries it with a towel as he listens intently. Will’s fingers reach into the seeds and pull a single one out between his fingers, appraising it like a tiny ruby.  The red glint from the kitchen light distracts him. It's like a shiny drop of blood.

“He’s leading you,” Hannibal repeats to prompt him into continuing. 

“Right. Leaving a trail, like breadcrumbs into the witch’s forest. If I’ not careful the witch will eat me, bones and all but... if I can catch up to him...I feel...maybe I could discover something  _ more _ ...” Will muses. 

“You may be right,” Hannibal eyes Will’s hand as it pops the seed into his mouth. 

“Then I guess I’ll keep looking,” Will shrugs and tosses a few more in to chew on. “These are pretty good.”

“They make an excellent dip I highly recommend. Allow me to write out a recipe for you,” Hannibal dries his hands and puts the towel on the counter. He pulls a card from a drawer and pens some writing on it as Will helps himself to a handful more. 

“I’m not much of a cook, Dr. Lecter,” Will admits freely. 

“It isn’t too complicated of a recipe. I could even teach you if you find yourself having too much trouble,” he nods and hands him the card. Will scans it and looks up disbelieving at Hannibal.

“This requires an hour of reducing pomegranate juice into a molasses,” he clarifies.

“Yes, it does,” Hannibal confirms and helps himself to a handful of seeds from the bowl. “Try it on the weekend, when you can find the time.”

“We’ll see,” Will shakes his head with a chuckle. “Thanks, Doctor Lecter.” 

“Not a problem Will. It’s what I’m here for: psychological and culinary advice,” Hannibal says, giving a little bow. “Our time is up, allow me to wrap those for you. For the road.”

Will nods and watches as Hannibal puts the remaining seeds into a small mason jar made for jams and marmalades. He tightens the lid and cuts a strand of twine to wrap around the top. The recipe card sitting on the counter is pulled and strung onto the twine with a delicate bow. Everything Hannibal does is so extravagant, even the equivalent of take home Tupperware.

The jar is then placed in Will’s hands, one palm on the lid and the other warmly on his shoulder.

“Enjoy it in good health, Will,” Hannibal nods. “I’ll see you next time.”

“Good night, Doctor,” Will says as he leaves.

“I’m sure it will be,” Hannibal adds. “Good night, Will.”

*****

He arrives home late, a half empty jar of seeds in one hand and a bag of meat scraps in the crook of the other elbow. His poor dogs were going through just as much dealing with his weirdness and he couldn’t sleep without knowing they were as content as he could make them. A sort of reward, just like before, for putting up with him. 

They jump and whimper happily as he minces the meat into tiny pieces to mix in with their dry food. Seven tin bowls spread over the counter filled with a nice blend of fatty scraps and kibble. Getting them to the floor without spilling all over the place is easier than one would think. It wasn’t always the case but with time comes training. They sit patiently now, some still whining under their breath, as he places the bowls on the floor.

With a sigh, he scoops up the jar of seeds from the counter and opens it as he sits on his bed. He eats a little here and there, relishing in the simple snack. Television only serves to bore him. Eventually, he grows tired enough to roll over, empty jar in hand, and fall calmly to sleep.   
  
  


**Recipe:**

 

**Turkish Walnut and Pomegranate Dip** **  
** **  
** **INGREDIENTS**

    * **1 1/2 c. walnuts, toasted**
    * **12 oz. roasted red peppers, drained**
    * **1/2 c. extra virgin olive oil**
    * **1 T. Pomegranate molasses (reverse side for homemade directions)**
    * **2 cloves garlic, minced**
    * **1/2 tsp. ground cumin**
    * **1/2 tsp. dried chili flakes**
    * **Salt**



**Directions:**

  1. **Combine above ingredients in the work bowl of a food processor and puree to a smooth paste.**
  2. **Adjust seasoning with salt and refrigerate for a couple of hours to allow flavors to make merry.**
  3. **Serve as a dip with pita bread and cut up vegetables, such as red and yellow peppers, celery and Jerusalem artichokes.**



  
  


**Homemade Pomegranate Molasses:** **  
** **  
** **INGREDIENTS**

  * **4 cups pomegranate arils (seeds)**
  * **1/2 cup sugar**
  * **2 Tbsp lemon juice**



 

###  **Directions:**

  1. **place the arils in a blender and pulse just enough so that the arils are broken up. Then strain through a fine mesh sieve.**
  2. **In a large, wide, uncovered saucepan, heat pomegranate juice, sugar, and lemon juice on medium high until the sugar dissolves and the juice simmers. Reduce heat just enough to maintain a simmer.**
  3. **Simmer for about an hour, or until the juice has a syrupy consistency, and has reduced to 1 to 1 1/4 cups. Pour out into a jar. Let cool. Store chilled in the refrigerator.**
  4. **If you want your pomegranate molasses to be sweeter, add more sugar to taste, while you are cooking it.**




	5. Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Water lapping against a pier in low rhythmic slaps. The ocean is his first thought before he’s even opened his eyes. But no salt smell. A lake then. Blinking awake reveals the grooves of wood planks with water showing between the cracks. Little white rocks breaching the surface in thick dark water. He sits up and looks around, noting the somewhat familiar landscape.

A small dock at a lake. Thick fog and the eerily quiet atmosphere. Forest on the other side of the water and pier side, the town. Silent Hill again. Why did it feel so familiar yet alien? He wonders if this is a place in his mind or a place he’d once been but forgotten? Maybe neither? Or both? Did it matter? 

On second look the rocks aren't rocks at all. Little white knuckles, taut clammy things devoid of color, barely break the water’s surface. Like a drowning victim who reached for daylight and just barely didn’t make it, suffocating in the noxious soup of the lake. It not so subtly reminds him of the mushroom corpses in the woods breaching the earth and reaching for rescue that never came. Deteriorating bodies, frothing and dissolving into a sludgy refuse. Corpse mulch soup du jour available now in Silent Hill. He nearly makes himself gag looking down on the viscous lake and its inhabitants. He can’t stay here.

Instead, he walks down the dock back towards the town and that’s when he spots something strange. Well, stranger than normal. 

A china plate, pristine white with delicate designs, perched precariously on a post at the start of the pier. On the plate is a beautifully cut piece of what looked to be pork. Raw and bloody, certainly not fit for human consumption. On the edge of the plate, a place card which Will picks up and scans. Blank. 

“Who would--” but he doesn’t finish. Something moves nearby, something large, making Will jump and knock the plate to the ground, shattering it into big shards. It’s gone so he glances down at the broken pieces, bright and crisp against the dull ground.

What a waste. Will kneels down and picks up the pieces, putting them into a little pile out of the way. Not that he needs to. It isn’t like anyone will step on them. 

“Dammit,” he curses when a sharp edge just nicks the side of his index finger. He flicks it and sticks it into his mouth until the bleeding stops. He leaves the meat where it fell, not inclined to pick it up with his bare hands.

“Psst. Williamas.”

Will looks up to see the little girl from before. She’s hiding behind a trashcan, looking cautiously around. Her little hand beckons him over urgently and he obeys. 

“It’s you...uh, sorry. I never learned your name,” he frowns. “Your name? What is it?”

“Mano vardas Mischa. Ar jūsų namuose dabar per Williamas?”

“Mano? Or is it Mischa?”

“Tai nėra saugu čia,” she whispers. “Yra gyvūnai čia. Alkanas gyvūnai.”

“Die nearuh? Sog--sogu chia? I have no idea what you’re saying,” he huffs out an exasperated breath. 

Her eyes suddenly go wide and she urgently whispers, “klausyti,” while pointing at her ear. 

Will listens quietly, at first unable to hear anything. But then--footsteps? Lots of footsteps, like claws hitting the ground. Like a pack of dogs. And in the distance, a group of darkened shapes approaches. Running full tilt towards them. 

“What is--”  
  
“Gyvūnai!” she whimpers and runs as fast as she can down the street. 

Now that they’re closer he can see them fully. He wouldn’t call them dogs, or even canine. They look as if a human being has been bent into the shape of a quadruped, then it’s skin completely peeled off, leaving nothing but bloody muscle as their morbid exterior. And those aren’t claws he hears clacking on the ground as they run but fingers with all the flesh removed. Bones curled up and bent from time on all fours.

The only part he can possibly consider doglike are the heads. Elongated skulls with gaping mouths of sharp teeth. Rotten eyes sunken in and raw fleshy noses sniffing at the air. Disgusting and horrifying are hardly adequate in describing them.

And there are eight of them running his way. 

“Shit,” Will exclaims and takes off down the street.

This is a dream, right? He should be able to run as fast as he wants in a dream but the pounding in his legs says otherwise. His feet pulse as they hit the ground hard, his chest burns as it takes in the smoky air. But he doesn’t dare stop, not with the way the little girl looked at them, fear blowing her eyes wide with fright. Those creatures will tear them limb from limb.

Or him, actually, for the little girl is nowhere in sight. She must have booked down an alley while he wasn’t looking. He’s keeping a relatively good distance, his heart pounding and not just from the exercise. Staying on the street will only give them sight on him. No obstacles to block sight or slow them down. 

_ Turn already, you moron. There! _

He turns nearly slipping on old newspapers and trash. He knocks over trash cans in the way, making noise but creating temporary hindrances to their straight paths. More cans toppled over in their way but he’s running out of alley. Then he spots it. 

“A dumpster!” he exclaims, out of breath. And right below a fire escape. Perfect.

He vaults over some boxes and clambers onto the dumpster. Then pulls himself up the ladder, ignoring an aching pain in his arms. Once on the landing, he pulls the ladder up, not that he thinks the creatures can climb but he doesn’t want to take the chance. Just in time too. Two of them scratch and scrape at the rusty dumpster trying desperately to get him. God, he can smell their rotten breath and the gangrene in their skinned feet.

“Please, please, please,” Will whispers, his back against the building, his eyes squeezed shut. Where was his gun when he needed it.

They snarl and spit, getting bile and blood on everything they can reach. But they can’t manage to get there, thankfully. They stop, look up at the sky, tilt their heads, and then take off back down the alley. Will lets out an exhausted breath. 

His wrist hurts from pulling himself up in such a hurry but now he has a new worry. What happened to the girl? He looks down and listens for any more monsters but hears nothing. Slowly and quietly he lowers himself to the ground. It’s unnerving standing among the muck from the monsters that were just there, knowing they have to be near, but staying hidden up on a fire escape doesn’t sit well with him. Not with a child in danger.

_ What if I can’t save her? _

_ Then you should get moving. _

With nothing to defend himself, he keeps his eyes open as he travels, opting for the alleys as they afford him more hiding places. His eyes catch on a rusted pipe laying on the ground behind another dumpster. It may withstand a few solid hits so he grabs it up. It's better than nothing. 

As he walks cautiously through the backstreets he listens for any sounds. Pretty quiet, which allows him time to think. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs brought him here the first time. The guilt from his murder must have created this place in his mind, like a personal purgatory he willingly walked into. A nightmare palace. And he can’t leave until...he resolves his issues? It feels like Hannibal is in his head, assisting him in this analysis.

“Where to, Doctor?” he wonders, his weapon low at his side. 

Doctor Lecter. What an enigma. A strange, sophisticated man with a strong interest in Will’s thoughts and feelings. Not the same way that Jack is interested or even Alana. Jack in it for the gain, Will’s mind a stepping stool for the recognition and prestige he so desperately wants. Alana...she wants him under a microscope, written about in medical journals as the test subject for her studies, but worries about breaking his delicate psyche. Afraid to push the envelope. But Hannibal…

Hannibal recognizes his mind for its unique qualities but focuses on its health rather than its capabilities. Wants to know his thoughts, not only for Hannibal’s sake but for Will’s. Being a patient listener. Pushing him to learn more about himself. Giving practical advice. A firm supportive hand at his shoulder. A warmth he’d been deprived of recently.

Alana wanted him, it was obvious but she hid her intentions, fear keeping her from crossing the line. Unfortunate, as having her next to him at night might go a long way to sating his loneliness. It was never going to happen, not with how she avoided being alone with him. Not able to trust herself to be impartial, to separate professionalism from personal. 

But Hannibal Lecter...Will isn’t ignorant of the way he stares, how his eyes flick over Will and the concern in his questions. Though the man seems stoic, Will has a feeling that if he gives Hannibal any indication, any suggestion at something more than professional, he’ll walk over that line without a second thought. 

Will licks his teeth under his lips, a faint taste of pomegranate lingers reminding him of the real world. Fingers pressing a jar into his hand, eyes lingering on his own. A voice coaxing his ears with words of comfort and advice. 

“Brolis!”

The scream interrupts his thoughts and Will’s heart drops. The child. Nearby. He takes off, no longer caring about the noise from his pounding feet, the sound of his heavy panting. More screams, strangled and cut short. Painful shrieks reverberating off the walls and into his ears. His worst fears revealed as he turns the corner to find five of the beasts ripping the flesh off of--

“God,” he gasps, his eyes can only see red. It’s everywhere.

The entire spectacle took place in front of a window set in a brick wall. It doesn’t belong there, the window. Behind its dusty glass...the antlered being. Black skin like slathered tar. A large rack of sharp horns. And those eyes. They look unblinkingly down on the show expressing no emotion. 

No, that’s wrong.  There’s something there. A sad resignation? 

Will shakes his head, not willing to accept it, not certain his eyes can be trusted. He readies the pipe and hammers down as hard as he can, crushing the skull of an unaware monster. This alerts the rest to his presence but he doesn’t run, though his legs want to. He looks down for a second at the girl, eyes wide and mouth opened in mid-scream. Her throat is torn out along with her intestines, stretched out like bloody pink taffy. 

_ She couldn’t defend herself.  _

_ And I was too late. _

_ There’s nothing anyone could have done. _

“ _ You _ could have done something!” Will shouts. At first to himself but again at the creature in the window, jabbing the air with his accusing finger. “ _ You _ were right there!”

He swings sending another creature to the side with a yelp. Anger fuels another strike but it misses and hits a trash can. It doesn’t stop him. He swings over and over, trying to get them away from her. To keep them from resuming their meal. They won’t get even one more drop if he can help it.

“Why didn’t you do  _ something _ ?!” Will pants, getting tired. 

One of them goes for his leg and gets a solid grip on his boot. With a yank it pulls him to the ground. The others jump on the opportunity, one goes for his free arm sinking teeth into his shoulder. Will growls in pain and swings the pipe. It misses and another pair of teeth goes for his neck. A punch to the head stuns it for a moment and Will looks wildly for another weapon within reach.

Nothing.

The creature is still in the window. His sad eyes no longer on the body of the foreign girl but on Will. A single hand pressed against the glass as he watches with curious interest. 

_ What will you do, Will? _

_ I won’t sit here, waiting  _ _   
_ _ for death to take me.  _ _   
_ __ That’s for damn sure.

 

Will punches the one on his shoulder once, twice, and it lets go. A hard kick with the heel of his boot removes the one on his leg with a yelp. He rolls, scrambling for the pipe on his hands and knees. With a spin he’s on his ass and winding up to for a strike from the ground. Two jump at the same time, one taking the hard swing and the other snapping his jaws directly into Will’s throat.

*****

Will wakes with a gasp, the gun from under his pillow pointed directly at his foot where Winston is pulling on his sock. He whines with confusion as Will catches his breath. It takes several moments of thought before he’s able to recognize Winston for harmless and lower his shaky hand from pointing the barrel between the animal’s eyes. 

“Sorry, Winston,” Will swallows guiltily. He puts the safety back on and places it on the nightstand. 

There’s blood in the bed. And shards of glass.

“Fuck,” says Will, rubbing his forehead in annoyance.

He’d crushed the jar with his body or, more likely, his hands. Either way, he cut his hand on the edges, bleeding onto his white sheets. After treating his wound, he removes the glass and replaces the sheet. The recipe card has a smudge of blood on it reminiscent of the pomegranate seeds he’d eaten. Still legible though. The card joins the gun on the stand. 

No point in going back to bed. With the sun coming up in the distance it’s nearly time to get up anyway. Will pops a few pills and shuffles to the kitchen for breakfast. Nothing but cornflakes. He needs to go shopping. What he’d give for another one of Hannibal’s sausage scrambles. With a sigh, he pours a bowl of cereal.

He can already tell, it’s going to be a long day. 


	6. Savior or Deliverer

After teaching his second class Will Graham is officially exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. But he has another class to teach and he’s seriously considering canceling in in favor of a walk in the nearby park. Somewhere not necessarily away from people but in a location where most people don’t entertain the idea of sidling up to strangers and talking to them. He is usually good at giving off an air of ‘don’t approach me’ in such a setting.

“Hello, Will. How’s your day?” Alana strolls in holding a take out bag of food.

“Testing my will to live,” he says sardonically. He doesn’t want to be morose but it’s how he feels. Luckily, Alana has known him long enough to know when he’s being overdramatic.

“I see,” she smiles sympathetically. “Brought some lunch. Would you like some?”

“What is it?” he asks, tidying up his satchel and stuffing it with papers.

“Greek. Gyros with pita bread and hummus,” she reveals. He can already smell the yogurt sauce. It doesn't smell cheap. Expensive takeout. And he’s always liked hummus.

“Sounds appealing,” he admits. “Let me clear my desk.”

They pull up chairs to his desk and talk about recent developments in psychology and serial killer identification. How funny that moments before he wanted nothing to do with either and longed for solitude. A place to not think about his work and how stressful it is. But for now, he’s glad of the company and doesn’t mind the conversation.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t going to cancel his last class afterward.

The gyro is fantastic and the hummus divine. He scoops some of the hummus out with his gyro, engulfing it all in one bite. Not elegant in the least but it’s in the spirit of enjoying a good meal. He nods approvingly as he chews.

“It’s good,” he tells her. “Very good.”

“Hannibal told me about the restaurant. It’s the only one he will eat at for authentic Greek cuisine,” Alana chuckles. “Otherwise, he’ll cook it himself.”

“Sounds picky, doesn’t he?” Will smiles.

“More like discerning,” Alana corrects. “I’ve known Hannibal a long time. He has a refined taste and sense of smell. If it’s not excellent quality, Hannibal doesn’t bite.”

Why does that phrase arouse interest in Will? It reminds him of fishing. When certain species won’t take the bait for things because they know it isn’t real. That it isn’t what they want. Is that what Hannibal is like? What kind of bait draws in the good doctor?

What kind of meat does Hannibal Lecter like between his teeth?

Will swallows that thought down and drinks from his soda. Alana talks some more about nothing he cares to pay attention to but he does a good job feigning interest. The only thing on his mind at the moment is Hannibal and his cupid’s bow lips. Pouting pensively as he weighs and measures the confidences pouring out to him, deciding how best to utilize the information for his practice. His fingers plucking at the cuffs of his fine tailored suits that cut well into his body. That elegant posture, shoulders broad and firm.

And that voice...why on earth is he single?

“How are your rescues?” Alana asks.

“They’re fine,” Will looks down at his food.

He flinches, swearing a gunshot just went off next to his ear. Alana doesn’t react. On the ground is a dead dog. Winston with a bullet right between the eyes. For a moment Will stops breathing. Not real, he reminds himself. Winston’s at home, nowhere near--

His body goes rigid when he hears the scream from before. That poor girl’s death rattle. It sounds like she’s right next to him. And just like that the noise, the dog, the blood; it all disappears. But the feeling of being exposed doesn’t leave him. Of being watched. A creeping fear like a spider crawling its way up his spine. If he moves...it’ll bite.

“Will? Are you alright?” Alana asks again. He missed her asking the first time. “You look distracted. Vacant.”

Not distracted, just immensely focused on something that wasn’t part of the conversation. And now that attention is brought to it, he feels a wave of embarrassment accompanied with the beginnings of a headache. Social anxiety. Being put on the spot. It always brings pain to his temples, a siren going off in his head.

“I’m not feeling well,” he finally tells her. “Anxiety attack, last night.”

“I’m sorry Will. Maybe you’d like to be alone?” she suggests and gathers up the garbage from the table.

“I would, thank you,” he nods, squinting his eyes as a headache starts to overtake him. On the board, he scribbles in big letters ‘CLASS CANCELLED’ and ‘REVIEW CASES BERKOWITZ and RAMIREZ’. “I think I’ll take the rest of the day,” he adds.

“I’ll let Jack know,” Alana tosses the trash out and waves as she leaves. She pokes her head back in for a moment more, “feel better, Will.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Will pinches the bridge of his nose while reaching into his satchel. He pulls a bottle and pops another Klonopin into his mouth, dry swallowing it. He shoulders the bag and goes straight to the park for some warm fresh air.

It isn’t long after he takes a seat on a bench that he feels a measure of relief. Alana means well with her concern but the tone in her voice--it makes him feel like something is wrong with him other than the obvious things that Jack comments regularly on. Or maybe that isn’t quite right. It’s more like he hates being the sideshow attraction, being stared at like he’s broken or some kind of pitiable monster. Except he’s both of those things regularly.

“Ugh,” Will grimaces. Yes, he isn’t normal but he doesn’t need a reminder. Or those pitying stares.

_I don’t want pity._

He pulls out his phone and stares at it. He flips through the contacts slowly, laughing pathetically when he reaches the end in two swipes of his finger. Such a short list. All of them color coded and categorized. All of them yellow and marked as work contacts. Except for Dr. Lecter. His name is red, in miscellaneous.

Not a co-worker. Not a friend. There was no category for Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

_Not yet anyway._

He taps the name and raises the phone to his ear. It takes a few moments but there’s an answer on the other line.

“Hello,” he hears Hannibal say calmly.

“Dr. Lecter,” Will starts.

“Will. Did you need something?” he asks.

“Uh, no. I mean, yes,” Will quickly corrects himself. “I was having a headache and I just wanted--there was this dream last ni--I had gyros for lunch with Alana. From Aleria.”

_I’m a fucking moron._

_Only sometimes._

_Shut up._

“I see. Did you enjoy them?” Hannibal asks. Will can almost feel a smile on the other end.

“Yes. I’ve never had a pork one before. Just lamb,” he explains. This isn’t why he called but the rambling is helping nonetheless. It takes his mind off of the embarrassment from his episode earlier. “But not from Aleria. The lamb one I had in Raleigh, years ago. It wasn’t particularly great. Average, at most.”

“Such a shame. Lamb, when prepared well, is divine. Melts in your mouth,” Hannibal reveals.

“I’ll have to try it again sometime,” Will rambles.

The line is quiet for a moment, as Will doesn’t know what else to say. He called for a reason. He wants to talk to Hannibal, about the night before. It doesn’t look like it externally but he’s worried by the fact he’d woken with a gun in his hands. And the time before that, outside his home. Who knows where he’ll be next time and what he he’ll be wielding.

But talking about his nightmare, out in the middle of a park with families walking by, seems a poor idea. In fact, the whole phone call is feeling like it was executed poorly. And the last thing he wants to do is waste Hannibal’s time.

“Did you need to come by the office Will?” Hannibal asks after a sufficient pause.

Could he sense his unease? Will wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

“I--you probably have clients,” says Will.

“I have a cancellation for the next hour, if you’d like,” Hannibal assures him.

“I don’t want to impose, Dr. Lecter,” Will tries to decline.

“Not at all. Come at your discretion, or simply wait until our scheduled time, Will. Either way, I’m here to listen,” Hannibal reminds him. “I’ll see you later, Will.”

“Right, thank you, Doctor,” Will nods and hangs up.

Why the hell not? It isn’t like he has anywhere to be now. So he picks up his bag and hurries to his car. By the time he gets there it will afford him about forty-five minutes to talk. Hopefully, that would be enough.

He arrives without delay and before he can take a seat on one of the chairs in the waiting room Hannibal is opening the door to his office. The man gestures for Will to enter and he nods before walking by him.

“Take a seat Will,” Hannibal encourages and takes one of his own. “You appeared distressed in your call. Did you injure yourself?”

Hannibal lowers his eyes to Will’s hand in reference to his question.

“Oh, this. Fine. It’s fine. I cut my hand on the jar you gave me. Seems I broke it in my sleep, sorry,” he apologizes and takes a seat.

“No apology necessary. As long as you’re alright,” he shakes his head. “Is there something else on your mind then?”

“Uh...a nightmare, last night,” he scratches at his chin, then clears his throat. “It’s been bleeding into my day. Giving me headaches and...flashes of…”

Hannibal must have sensed his hesitation to revisit the memory.

“Take your time Will. There is no need to hurry,” Hannibal reassures him.

Will must admit that it’s difficult to talk about it. Half of the memories are jumbled and he isn’t sure if all of them happened the way he thinks. But talking with Hannibal is easier than he expects for such a grim topic. And the man is ever ready with a patient and watchful eye.

He slowly explains the nightmare from start to finish, at least the parts he recalls. The lake dock. The crashing plate. The frightened girl. The chasing fiends. As he draws closer to the end of the nightmare he finds himself clasping his hands together tight, almost as tight as his throat. His palms sweat and shake. His eyes can’t focus, the vision blurred. Nerves getting the better of him again. Will sees Hannibal’s eyes flick down to those clasped hands for a mere moment before returning to listening.

“Torn apart,” Will recalls. “Shredded and eaten...it was only a dream but…” he takes a deep breath and covers his face in shame. “I could have saved her.”

“It sounds like there was nothing you could do,” Hannibal suggests, just like the voice in his head.

Will uncovers his face and clasps his hands tightly together in front of him again. Maybe that was true but it doesn’t make him feel much better. What did make him feel better was smashing those creatures into pulp in front of the antlered man. It felt just. I felt right. It still does.

_The antlered man._

The first time Will saw him, fear overtook him. But the last time...he’d felt angry. But then understanding seeped in. Will could feel his heart ache. A pain pulsing through him. An agonizing despair that threatened his own eyes with tears. It was the eyes, so sad as if grieving a loss. A warm hand slips into his, startling him when he realizes it's not a hallucination.

“Will,” Hannibal calls to him.

“Dr. Lecter--”

“Your hand,” Hannibal nods down.

Hannibal turns his hand over for Will to see the blood seeping through the bandage. He must have opened the cut but he didn’t feel a thing. Will gives half a pathetic laugh and smile.

“Figures,” Will comments and shrugs.

“Stay here, I have an emergency medical kit,” Hannibal insists, releasing his hand. On his fingers is a smudge of Will’s blood.

When Hannibal returns he’s carrying a little white box with a red cross on it. He flips it open and gathers a few things from inside. Wipes, a gauze pad, antiseptic, tweezers, cotton balls, gauze strips and medical tape. It seems like too much for a simple cut. When Will treated it himself he only used a little gauze and tape.

Hannibal takes Will’s hand and carefully removes the bandages until the wound is exposed. The doctor spends a moment analyzing it and turning it over in his hands.

“Nothing too damaging. You simply opened the wound from squeezing too hard,” Hannibal informs him.

“I forgot you were a doctor, a medical one,” Will remembers. “Before becoming a psychiatrist.”

Hannibal smiles with a nod and begins his work. First cleaning the surface with the wipes, getting all the dried blood up. With a pair of tweezers, he rubs a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic into and around the wound firmly. It stings a great deal but Will manages to keep his face from grimacing too hard. Then the gauze pad presses gently into the wound before wrapping it securely. All the while Will stares at the hand that remains at Will’s wrist to keep everything still, a thumb on his pulse.

A pulse that rises rapidly when Hannibal’s squeezes his wrist a little.

“Nervous Will?” Hannibal asks. “I haven’t dressed a wound in some time but I know what I’m doing, rest assured.”

Will nods, desperately trying to will his heartbeat to slow down.

“There,” Hannibal finishes up with a strip of tape. “Should hold without trouble. Redress it tomorrow morning. If you have trouble, you need only ask. I am at your disposal.”

“Thanks,” Will nods, keeping his eyes from Lecter’s.

He was never fond of eye contact, especially when nervous. Which is often. And especially now, with the effects of physical contact exhibiting themselves. Was he really so starved for touch that a simple brush from fingers was enough to rattle him?

“Anytime,” Hannibal smiles and cleans up the messy bandages, tossing them away in a trash can. “Have you gone to see Abigail Hobbs recently?”

_Thank God, a change of subject._

Once since Stammets. He hadn’t stayed long. She was hooked up to a couple of machines. Hannibal had been there, asleep at her bedside. He left a vase of flowers and exited quickly, not wanting anyone to see him lingering over the body like a ghoul. People already talk about him in hushed whispers, the last thing he needed was more of that. And since Hannibal was there and a doctor himself, Will had very few worries with leaving her in his care.

“For a little while, the day after Stammets,” he said. “They said she was stable. I called yesterday to check on her again. No change. Comatose.”

“They will call if she wakes, after all, she was a witness. Jack thinks to her father's earlier crimes as well,” Hannibal informs him. “The FBI is not likely to ignore the possibility that she may have information.”

Will nods in agreement.

“They'll hound her day and night,” Will huffs, not thrilled with the prospect. “Not a moment's rest. With the pain of her parents' death still fresh. No chance to recover emotionally before they begin probing her. That's if she ever wakes at all…it might be better if...nevermind.”

Hannibal picks up on something there because he furrows his brow in interest.

“Conflicted, Will? Before you were concerned for her health and now you sound hopeful that she doesn't wake. Is that what you want for Abigail Hobbs?”

Does it matter? What awaits her if she does wake? The misery accompanying the realization that she is now alone in the world? The stigma that will follow her for the rest of her life as the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike? Not a friend in the world. Nothing.

“She has nothing to look forward to. I killed her father. Her father killed her mother and almost her. Her family is gone. No one coming forward to claim her. The media has slandered her father. I’m not sure which is worse; waking to find you have nothing or never waking at all,” Will sighs. “That’s up to Abigail, I guess.”

“Would you rather it were up to you?” Hannibal asks with curiosity. “You, and I, in some regards, feel responsible for Abigail’s current condition. That was made obvious through our many talks. But if it were your decision which would you rather be; her savior or her deliverer?”

“They sound similar,” Will admits.

“Come now, Will,” Hannibal says, leveling his eyes at Will causing him to look down. “Do you truly see them as the same?”

“I uh,” he swallows. He supposes they really aren’t the same depending on context.

“Don’t feel that this question needs an answer now,” Hannibal reassures him. “Just something to consider after some time, perhaps after supper.”

It sounds like a question and the way Hannibal is looking at him...is he expecting an answer? Right then? Will blinks, removes his glasses and wipes his eyes before looking up again.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been seeing things and hearing things lately,” Will clears his throat. “It sounded like you were asking me to dinner, but I could be wrong.”

“It would give me the opportunity to use the lamb in my larder to give you a proper lamb gyro,” Hannibal explains and stands from his chair. He fixes his middle button as he stands. “Your palette will be grateful for the opportunity and I can guarantee, without a doubt,” he pauses as he comes closer and leans down before continuing, “you will not regret the taste.”

The words feel charged and with Lecter, Will can’t be sure there isn’t another mean hiding in his sentences. It makes his chest feel tight and not necessarily in a good way. Like he’s being preyed upon. But his paranoia leads to many false assumptions, he just needs to beat it back with logic. Hannibal has never hurt him, why would he start now?

That settles some of his worry but Will still can’t form the words he needs so he manages an agreeable nod while swallowing. This is satisfactory enough for Lecter. He smiles and, thankfully, turns to check his day planner in the desk. If he hadn’t, he never would have visibly relaxed with those eyes on him.

Hannibal Lecter, cooking, for him. Just him? It’s somehow flattering but also terrifying. He isn’t sure if he can handle that. Would it be too terribly rude to decline now? It feels too late so he says nothing when Hannibal turns around.

“Come by during your usual time,” says Hannibal. “You are my last patient of the day and I should have it prepared by then.”

“Alright,” Will nods and gathers his coat. He’s ready to leave before his anxiety gets the better of him. Did he remember to take his pills this morning? Perhaps it’s time for a dosage check. “See you then, Dr. Lecter.”

“I look forward to it,” Hannibal tells him as he holds the door. “Until then.”


	7. Coming to Dinner

He’s early. Will looks at his watch with a scowl. Too god damn early. It isn’t nerves that stop him from entering. He’s already taken more of his pills. It’s the idea that Hannibal might find it rude. Or just annoying. What if it causes Hannibal to never again invite him for a meal?

_Why do I care if he asks me again?_

_That is an interesting question._

_No, it’s really not._

_You haven’t even had a first dinner._ _  
_ _Already planning for a subsequent one?_

_Yes. No! Maybe…_

_Trying to make a good impression, Will?_

Maybe a little. He looks down at his clothes, checking them for wrinkles. It’s the nicest plaid button up he owns. Probably only a month or so old. He contemplated a tie before arriving but left it in the car with his grey suit jacket. Is he underdressed? He lets out a resigned grumble before returning to the car to put on the tie and jacket.

“What am I doing?” he mumbles to no one, quickly shrugging the jacket back on.

Back to the door, he lets himself into the waiting room, then knocks. It’s a few moments before there is an answer and Hannibal opens the door with a towel in his hands.

“Ah, Will. You’re early,” he comments.

 _Damn it all, I should have_ _  
_ _waited in the car._

“I...might have over jumped the arrival time,” he says, looking apologetic at the floor.

“Not a problem,” Hannibal says. “Come. Since you’re here you can help prepare the salad.”

The kitchen smells like heaven and that is putting it lightly. He can’t see where the lamb meat is but it’s there. Along with the scent of onions, garlic, and if he isn’t mistaken, bacon. The timer on the oven is counting down and currently at ten minutes. There’s a cutting board with bunch of vegetables neatly organized next to it.

“Are you familiar with greek salads, Will?” Hannibal asks as he begins cutting cucumbers into thin slices.

“Semi. I’ve eaten them before,” he admits. Hannibal’s hands are so exacting with his slices, it’s hypnotizing.

“Wonderful. Roll up your sleeves then,” he says and waits for Will to do so. “Take this, and continue slicing these. Try to keep them the same size as ones I’ve already cut. Afterwards, halve the small tomatoes. I’ll take care of the onions and the feta.”

Will nods as Hannibal passes the knife to him carefully. He takes Hannibal’s place and starts cutting. The good doctor nods approvingly and goes about his own task. Thankfully, Hannibal never asks him to speak as he’d end up cutting himself with the distraction.  Instead he tells Will all about the cuisine they will indulge in.

“This particular salad is most common in Cyprus,” Hannibal informs him. “It was often called a ‘farmer’s breakfast’ as it was food items a farmer would most commonly have available. Others call it a ‘rustic salad’. In my recipe cards I have it written down as theri salata, ‘summer salad’.”

“Do you speak Greek?” Will asks, finishing up the cucumbers and starting on the tomatoes.

“móno mia mikrí posótita,” Hannibal says. “Only very little. Do you need something translated Will?”

“No, I was just curious,” Will admits. “Neat.”

“I see. And you told me on our first meeting, that you didn’t find me interesting,” Hannibal says with a slight chuckle, turning Will’s face a little red.

“So I did,” Will says, keeping his focus on the tomatoes.

Hannibal chuckles again before getting back to work. Before long they have everything for their salads ready and Hannibal is removes the lamb from the oven. Because Hannibal doesn’t own a vertical rotisserie which is prefered for this type of preparation, he instead has the ground lamb shaped into a meat loaf. It needs to set for fifteen minutes, so Hannibal insists they eat their salads in the meantime.

Hannibal brings out the salads to the table. It’s already set for two and instead of Hannibal sitting at the head of the table, he sits across from Will. He realizes this means he can’t avoid Hannibal’s gaze forever. Will takes his seat at Hannibal’s behest and the gracious host leans from behind him to pour dressing into his salad.

“Summer salad, complete with the usual accoutrements: tomatoes, onions, cucumbers and feta cheese. Kalamata olives that I preserved myself with a three month salt water brine. Topped with a dash of fresh oregano, caper berries from the Dodecanese Islands, and a splash of red wine vinegar,” Hannibal rattles off, his voice only inches from Will’s ears. “Bone appétit, Will.”

“Thank you,” he manages after Hannibal leaves his side to take his own seat.

It’s delicious because of course it is. With how long Hannibal’s been cooking and preparing fancy dinners, he isn’t surprised that it tastes phenomenal. He enjoys every bite and even tells himself that he’ll never buy a greek salad from the store again. It simply doesn’t compare. Hannibal’s eyes flit up often from his meal to look at Will as he eats. He says nothing but a small smile graces his face.

“This is great,” Will compliments. “The olives...they’re amazing.”

“Nothing like preserving one’s own food. At the cost of expense and time, one gains a quality unmatched by any mass produced store.”

“It shows,” Will agrees, finishing off the last bites.

“The gyro meat should be done shortly,” Hannibal announces. “Excuse me for a moment, while I prepare it. Would you like some wine, Will?”

Will simply nods and Hannibal pours him a little before going back into the kitchen. He resists the urge to chug it all down to calm his nerves again. Something about the way the doctor looks at him, sets him on edge. He’s uncertain if Hannibal is analyzing, undressing, or dissecting him with his eyes. Any of them would make him uncomfortable, though depending on the context he may change his opinion on the second.

Having Hannibal root around in his head isn’t something he wants however. He doesn’t want anyone in there. That being said, having Hannibal root around in his body, well…The doctor comes back with two plates and places one in front of Will.

“Traditional lamb gyro, on top of homemade flatbread. Accompanied by fresh chopped tomatoes and thin sliced yellow onion. Topped with a combination of herbs and Tzatziki sauce, made from scratch,” Hannibal informs him.

“Smells amazing,” Will admits freely. Should he use a fork? What is the proper etiquette for a fancy gyro dinner? The question is answered for him when Hannibal sits across and just picks it up with his hands.

 _I guess certain foods are_ __  
_universally eaten the same,_  
no matter the setting.

“Enjoy Will,” Hannibal says, right before he takes a bite.

Will takes a hearty bite and is floored by the flavors in the meat. How did Hannibal have time to prepare such a meal with such short notice? Homemade Tzatziki? And flat bread? Did he cancel other appointments just to make this for Will? All because they talked about gyros earlier?

It’s delicious and Will can’t even stop taking bites long enough  to claim it as such. Once it’s gone and the last of it swallowed down, Will finally makes a comment.

“That’s the best gyro I’ve ever tasted,” Will says and wipes sauce from the corner of his mouth. Inelegantly he sucks it right off his thumb. “Is there any more?”

“Yes,” Hannibal nods with a pleased smile. “I’m more than happy to make you another but then you might not have room for dessert.”

“There’s dessert too?” Will asks incredulously. “Christ, of course there is.”

Hannibal simply chuckles into his wine.

Dessert is surprisingly simple, especially for Hannibal’s tastes. Greek yogurt with candied walnuts and a healthy drizzle of honey. And he’s right, there was no way he could have eaten it if he’d had seconds. At the end of the meal, Hannibal collects all the plates for washing while Will wanders about the library office.

Will offered to help with dishes but Hannibal declined and said he’d take care of it. He senses it has something to do with how Hannibal likes to do things himself. Will is very touchy about such things when it comes to how his home is organized, so he doesn’t begrudge Hannibal for denying his assistance. It gives him time to think while polishing off his third glass of wine.

His seeing things has increased as of late. Even now he feels as though he’s being watched from somewhere hidden. It’s oppressive, like an invisible thunderstorm filling the room. He keeps expecting something to light on fire. The hairs on his neck prickle in anticipation.

“Will, thank you for your patience,” Hannibal returns to his study. “Would you like any more wine?”

“No, thank you. This is quite enough,” Will manages to chuckle. He can feel himself more than a little warm from all the alcohol.

He’s been needing something like this lately. A relaxing evening with minimal interaction among people. One person is far easier to deal with than a restaurants worth of patrons. Romantic couples. Festive family dinners. Screaming children.

The last of those thoughts causes a shudder in him as he remembers the girl. Covered in blood. The scream still ringing eternal in his ears. With a shake of his head he sways a little near the fireplace. Hannibal catches hold of his elbow to steady him.

“Too much wine, Will?” he asks and guides him to one of the comfortable chairs.

“No, just a memory,” Will blinks, trying to clear his vision of her but her body remains etched in front of him. She’s lying on the floor at Hannibal’s feet, fear still etched on her face.

Hannibal looks sympathetic but doesn’t push for more information, though he looks as though he has a dozen questions. Instead he takes a seat on the opposing chair, and simply waits patiently.

“You said you knew some Greek? How many other languages do you speak?” Will asks.

“Quite a few. German, Russian, Polish. Some romance languages, Italian, French, Spanish. And a little Japanese from my Aunt,” he lists off.

_Holy shit._

Will blinks. He expected a second language from his accent but... **_seven_ ** different languages? Maybe one of them could help answer some questions from his dream. The girl. What did she speak? Maybe it was Russian? How could he know? He tried to remember any specific words she’d used.

“The girl. I didn’t tell you before but I couldn’t understand her. If I knew what she said then maybe I can figure out why she keeps showing up in my dreams,” Will explains, sipping down the last of his wine.

“I will certainly try to help in any way I can, Will,” Hannibal puts down his glass and listens.

What were the words? Some of them weren’t hard. Giv? Givu?

“Gyvūnai,” he tries repeating but the emphasis seems off.

Hannibal, who is usually so relaxed and at ease, furrows his brow in confusion. A look Will has never seen on his face. He sits up, far more attentive, and leans forward.

“Apologies, Will. Could you repeat it?” he asks, a finger resting on his lips.

“Gyvūnai,” he says again. “Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Alkanas gyvūnai,” he adds when his memory serves to remind him. “She said it before…” But Will mumbles until his voice leaves him.

Hannibal looks to be far away. His eyes scanning something not physically in front of him. Will brings him back with a clearing of his throat.

“The words are Lithuanian,” Hannibal finally speaks, regaining his poise. He stands from his chair and walks to his bookshelf. Will watches as he rests a hand on a tome but doesn’t pull it. “How interesting you should hear it in a dream.”

“The words doctor?” Will raises a brow.

“Animal. Hungry animal,” he reveals, pulling the book. He opens it for a second to look at a page. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before closing it and putting it back. “Or empty animal, depending on the context.”

Starving animals sounds about right, Will thinks, remembering the blood thirsty beasts. He tries harder to remember more of her words but comes up blank. Everything is just too cloudy and he says as much to Hannibal. He just can’t remember. Oh well.

“You didn’t list Lithuanian as one of the languages you knew,” Will points out.

“No, I,” Hannibal pauses, and Will senses hesitance for only a second. “I haven’t heard it in so long, I’d forgotten. Not since I was a much younger man. It is refreshing to hear it again.”

It didn’t sound like he was necessarily happy to hear it a minute ago.

“Do you still speak it?” Will asks.

“Mano vardas yra daktaras Hanibalas Lekteris. Jis visada malonu matyti ir būti šalia tavęs, Williamas,” Hannibal enunciates beautifully. In fact, Will finds the accent very alluring. Wait, did he just say Will’s name?

 _What the hell_ _  
_ _did he say about me?_

It didn’t sound bad but it did sound forward. Like being hit on in a foreign language. And it wasn’t just the words, it was the way his eyes took in Will when he said it.  He shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks. That’s it. No more wine when alone with Dr. Lecter.

“Will, I must confess I do have ulterior motives in asking you here tonight,” Hannibal approaches his chair and places a hand on the back of it, inches from Will’s neck. His resting heart rate rises to near panic levels. “I wish to try something with you.”

“Wh-what’s that?” he manages to cough out.

“You told me you are having some difficulty in remembering all that happens in your dreams. Which is odd, considering your eidetic memory. I thought perhaps you might give hypnosis a try,” Hannibal finally removes his hand from the chair and walks to the other seat.

“Hypnosis,” Will repeats.

“You will be able to describe the occurrences as they happen to someone who can take notes and guide you through the more difficult aspects,” he explains. “It could help to have someone along to ease this sense of helplessness you seem to be experiencing.”

“Do you mean I would be able to envision you there to help?” Will tries to understand.

“If that’s what you need, then yes,” Hannibal nods.

He has to think about it. Hannibal doesn’t need to be rooting around in his head. It’s not what Will wants. But to have him metaphorically hold his hand as he descends into that lonely ghost town...it doesn’t sound horrible. And Hannibal might be able to make sense of some of the things happening there.

Garret Jacob Hobbs. The horned creature. The foreign girl.

Anything to make the headaches and sleepwalking stop. So he nods, willing to give it a try.

  


 

**RECIPE:** _**BAKED LAMB GYROS** _

**[Perfect for making gyros without a vertical rotisserie]**

**INGREDIENTS:**

  * ****1/2 onion (Type is matter of preference)****
  * **1 pound lamb (Finely ground)**
  * **1 pound ground beef (Finely ground)**
  * **1 tablespoon minced garlic (Fresh)**
  * **1 teaspoon ground cumin**
  * **1 teaspoon ground fresh rosemary**
  * **1 teaspoon fresh oregano**
  * **1 teaspoon ground fresh thyme**
  * **1 teaspoon fresh marjoram**
  * **1 teaspoon ground black pepper**
  * **1/4 teaspoon sea salt**



**DIRECTIONS:**

  1. ****Finely chop onions and remove excess liquid from them. To do so, wrap them in a towel (paper or otherwise) and squeeze the excess out.****
  2. ******Mix onions with finely ground lamb and hamburger meat.**  
****
  3. **Add the garlic, cumin, rosemary, oregano, thyme, marjoram, black pepper and salt.**
  4. **Mix well with hands until well integrated.**
  5. **Cover and refrigerate for 1 or 2 hours to allow blending of flavors.**
  6. **When ready, Preheat oven to 325 degrees F**
  7. **Place the meat mixture into the food processor and pulse for about a minute until finely chopped and feels tacky.**
  8. **Pack the meat mixture into a 7x4 inch loaf pan, removing all air pockets.**
  9. **Line a roasting pan with a damp kitchen towel. Place the loaf pan on the towel, inside the roasting pan, and place into the preheated oven. Fill the roasting pan with boiling water to reach halfway up the sides of the loaf pan.**
  10. **Bake for 46 minutes to 1 hour or until the gyro meat is no longer pink in the center. The internal temperature must register 165 degrees F on a meat thermometer to be safe for consumption.**
  11. **Pour off any accumulated fat, and allow to cool fifteen minutes before slicing thinly and serving.**  



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	8. Hypnotized

Hannibal has him lay out on a sofa, placing his head on a pillow. The doctor insists he make himself as comfortable as possible, taking his jacket from him and placing it over the back of a chair. Hannibal gestures to Will’s tie, nearly touching it, and instructs that it should be loosened or removed for ease of breathing.  

Those amber eyes follow his fingers as he works it out a little, loosening it adequately enough. He brings a chair close to the sofa and sits very near Will, clicking a metronome on the side table. It clicks side to side in slow sweeps.

“Take a deep breath in and then slowly let it out, Will. Close your eyes and focus on the sound of the metronome,” Hannibal starts.

Will does so. A deep inhale followed by letting it out slowly. Eyes shut. 

Click...Clack...Click...Clack…

“Good, now take another deep breath and let yourself sink. You’re in no danger. Simply let yourself relax and sink.”

_ I’m falling. _

Will can feel the center of the sofa dipping in like a hammock. Then a weightless sensation as he falls--no, floats. He’s floating down, like in a pool in the summertime. The light emantating from the ceiling grows further and further away as he sinks into a murky fog. But Hannibal’s voice is there reminding him to take deep breaths.

“Can you still hear me Will?”

Will nods.

“You’ve made it to the bottom. Your feet are on solid ground,” Hannibal tells him but his voice feels distant now. Like an echo from a mountain top. He’s so far. “Where are you Will? Tell me what you see? What do you feel? What can you smell?”

Fog...so much fog. He feels...a brick wall. It’s warm. When he pulls his hand back it’s coated in red. Wet paint? It smells like a back alley in downtown Richmond. Rotten garbage. Smog filling his lungs. Something drips on his shoulder, red and tacky. The fog clears and above him, strung up between the buildings, is a grotesque display of the corpses of the Gyvūnai. 

In a circle above him is a merry-go-round of the dog creatures. Each dog has the bottom half of another dog shoved and pressed down its throat, ripping the flesh around the mouths. It’s recently made as the blood continues to drip frequently down onto Will’s skin and in his hair. He steps aside to avoid future drips but his eyes stay on the almost artistic installment.

_ It’s a dog eat dog world. _

_ Who do you think did this Will? _

_ The Wendigo. _

Why does he call it that? He isn’t sure but the words sound right now that he’s thought it. The antlered man, ever thin, ever hungry. The body of the girl is gone, nothing but a small dried blood pool where she used to lay and a trail of black tar footprints leaving the gruesome scene. The Wendigo has taken her.

Where is Hannibal’s voice? He doesn’t _feel_ alone, as there is a presence, but he can’t hear anyone. Is Hannibal still with him? He calls out to him but receives no response other than a distinct feeling of being watched and imagined warmth in his hand. 

Metaphorically holding his hand through it all?

The pipe is still on the ground where he left it, so he scoops it up, not sure if there are more fun residents in his hell hole. And if the Wendigo did that to the Gyvūnai, he can’t imagine what else it might have in store for other’s that trespass here. He squeezes the pipe in his hands to test his grip and follows the tracks.

Like before, the town is empty except for the noise of his steps. He truly can't hear Hannibal anymore. But can he hear Will? He's not sure so occasionally he says what he's doing, says what he sees aloud. Walking past a broken shop. Abandoned cars rusted from disuse. The air smells and tastes like ashes from a house fire. It parches his throat, making him thirsty for something to clear it.

Eventually, he comes across the entrance to a public park. The Wendigo's steps lead inside and disappear into the fog. 

“There's an old park gate. But I can't see far inside. The fog is thicker beyond the sidewalk, like a whole nother realm,” Will announces to no one. 

_ I'm not sure I want  _ __  
_ to go in there.  _ _  
_ __ Not with just this.

He grips the pipe, not sure if it's sufficient to protect him. Is wasn't before. The dogs...What he'd do for a gun right about now. 

There's a shout that brings his eyes back up to the gate. It wasn't a child but maybe a woman? He can't see the source from where he is and he doesn't want to just sit there like before. She could die in his hesitation and the perpetrator escape. That thought alone is enough to spur him inside.

It's so thick here. He loses sight of the tracks but he still hears the noise. Like someone in pain, crying out from an injury. It turns into a pained whine until he's not sure it’s human at all. 

“It… sounds like a dying deer,” Will swallows. 

He's only heard one once when he hit a young buck with his truck years ago. It destroyed the front of the car but didn't immediately die. It laid on its side heaving and bleating in wails. The doe and fawn nearby only stared at him from the other side of the road. They wanted to go to their companion but remained far from Will. From the monster that preyed on them.

Will couldn't leave it but didn't have the stomach to end it himself. It's different to kill a warm-blooded creature, nothing like when he clubbed a fish by the river. He sat by the car, back against a tire, agonizing over every ragged breath the bloodied animal took. Shuddering under the dying gaze of that animal. For weeks he felt those eyes on him, blaming him for the suffering the deer endured.

_ It wanted me to finish what I started. _

Another pained bleat. Will’s close enough now that he can make out a shape in the distance. No, there are two shapes, something on the ground and another kneeling above it.

Will visibly relaxes when he sees the tall form is without horns and as he gets closer he sees that it isn't Garret Jacob Hobbs either. It's Hannibal kneeling over the body of a dying deer, a large wounded stag. He looks stoic, no concern on his face despite the animal in front of him clearly bleeding out.

Will takes to his knees to assess the situation. Something has taken a huge bite out of its abdomen, shredding the muscle and tissue so that organs are spilling out. They've been chewed on as well. Futilely, Will tries to press the torn intestines back into the gaping hole that once was a stomach but all he succeeds in doing is getting his hands bloody. He looks up to Hannibal, his eyes begging for direction.

Hannibal simply tilts his head to Will's foot. When he looks he finds a hunting knife that definitely wasn't there a second ago. 

_ Savior or Deliverer, Will.  _ _  
_ _ Make a choice. _

_ Killing it...won’t help it. _

__  
_ But taking on the burden of another’s life _ __  
_ is hardly delivering it from it's pain.  _ _  
_ __ It just delays the inevitable while it suffers.

The Hannibal in front of him isn't saying a word, just watching with curiosity. Will looks down to the deer as it whines and gasps. He has to do _something_. Hannibal picks up the knife and for a second WIll thinks the decision will be taken from him, the thought of which is a relief. But then Hannibal's hand presses the handle into Wills hold and squeezes to ensure he takes it. Will looks down at it as Hannibal sits back again and watches with interest as to what Will's next step is. His hand grips the knife but they shake as they draw closer to the animal's throat. Is this what Hannibal wants him to do? 

“I-I c-can’t,” Will shakes his head. “I need help. You said you would help me.”

Hannibal nods and joins Will on his side of the beast. Kneels quietly, getting blood on his expensive slacks but hardly sparing a glance at the puddle. He places a hand on the back of Will's neck and the other on the blade with him. It's comforting to not feel completely alone, a warm hand on him to guide his actions. 

Ending its suffering feels like the right thing to do. And this silent Hannibal seems to agree as he holds his head to Will's, calmly threading his fingers in his curly hair. His gentle grasp on his hand as he brings the blade down to the furry neck. It rests there as if Hannibal is waiting for a sign to show WIll is ready.

_ Together. _

Will closes his eyes and sinks the blade into the creature's throat, a euphoric feeling washing over him as he takes its life with Hannibal's face pressing into his neck. It feels amazing, warm blood oozing over his knuckles, Hannibal's breath on him. God, are those Hannibal's cupid's bow lips brushing his rushing pulse? When Will opens his eyes the deer is gone. In its place is the gurgling body of Abigail Hobbs.

“No, no, no. No!” Will panics and presses his hands to her throat, trying to stem the bleeding but the cut is too deep. Blood just spurts out in splashes, getting on his arms, his face, and his legs. “I'm--fuck--this isn't what I--God I'm sorry. I just wanted, I just wanted to help!”

Hannibal just stares at the scene before him. Unconcerned.

“P..lease…” she gurgles under his hands. “Do...n’t…...s-st...op…...Don’t...”

“How do I help her?! Say something! Do something!” Will yells at him.

Hannibal nods and takes Will’s hands off the body and holds them tight, not letting him put them back on her neck. He pulls, trying to get out of his grip, his eyes frantically scanning back and forth between them. But Hannibal's grip is stronger than his ability to free himself.

“How is this helping?! Hannibal! She's dying!” he yells. 

Hannibal just shushes him and nods his head back to the body. Will looks on horrified and confused.

She looks scared as she chokes on her own blood, eyes wildly searching for someone or no one. Her eyes blink slowly and go out of focus. Then her face relaxes as she accepts her fate. When her eyes find him again there is no hate, no blame. Instead, she smiles at him. 

_ Why? _

_ Maybe it's better this way. _

_ But she could have…  _ __  
_ She could be alive  _ _  
_ __ if it weren't for me.

_ Does alive mean better? _

Will shakes his head. He's not sure. When he looks at her corpse he sees a wasted life. A fledgling tree uprooted before it could get cut down and used in another's design. It's tragic but in his chest, he feels relief. Why does he feel lighter? Because he killed her--freed her? Or because he liked it?

Before he can contemplate it further her mouth droops open and a police siren begins. Deafening and piercing his ears, it brings him to the ground with a shout. Hannibal doesn't appear to hear it but he brings his hands to cover Will's ears as the shrill noise gets louder and louder. Hannibal is saying something to him but he can't hear it. All he hears are the sirens and a clicking noise that feels familiar. Distant but getting louder until-

Will shoots up on the couch with a gasp. It feels as though he hasn't breathed in hours so he coughs and chokes on the clean air of Hannibal Lecter's office. He feels clammy and damp with sweat. The clock shows it's only been ten minutes but that seems impossible. He’s been gone for hours at least.

“Slow breaths Will,” Hannibal reminds him. “Speak only when you're ready.”

He can't state how reassuring it is to hear a voice, his voice. All the silence of that horrid place, with only his own voice to accompany him...he's glad for sound. Any sound. And color! To see the colors of the books on his shelves, the swirling design of Hannibal's rug, the amber of the doctor's eyes. To feel the soft sofa and not cold concrete. To smell lamb and not blood or smoke. After a few deep breaths, he notices that Hannibal has his hand clasped in his but he doesn't bring attention to it yet.

“I was there again…the abandoned town. Silent Hill,” he sighs. “Did I talk when I went under?”

“Some at first,” Hannibal nods. “But you grew quieter once you described a park. After that, you only spoke intermittently. At one point asking for help, so I held your hand, which seemed to put you at ease. You sounded frightened.”

“I was,” Will admits and rubs his face with the free hand.

“You said my name. It was quite...shocking to hear.”

“You, shocked?” Will scoffs after another deep breath.

Hannibal presses the button on a small recording device. It plays silence for a while until there's a groan. Will practically gasping his name. It could be misconstrued as pain but Will knew otherwise. Hannibal likely knew too. It was the moment he'd cut into Abigail Hobbs with Hannibal's hand in his neck, massaging his fingers through his hair. Pressing his lips to his flesh. Far too erotic to be anything but an approving moan.

“Uh...hmm,” Will bites at his lips, his face flushing. Is it too late to pull his hand away without being suspicious?

“Would you mind my asking, what it was that elicited such a response?” Hannibal asks, his eyes curious but not condemning.

“I...I…” Will hesitates. “I imagined you there with me…it was comforting. To not be alone.”

“I see. Anything else?” Hannibal adds.

Will looks down and is taken aback by what he sees. Hannibal still holding his hand. If there’s a sign that the doctor is interested this is it. But if he says that silent Hannibal helped him murder a girl and that it got his rocks off…How interested would he be then? He’d sound like a fucking freak, more so than he already is.

“No, that's it,” Will shakes his head and pulls his hand back from Hannibal's grip. 

It’s hard to tell if Hannibal is disappointed in his action. He handles Will’s withdrawal well and brings him a glass of water. Hannibal takes Will’s hand gently and puts the glass inside, not unlike the way silent Hannibal pressed the hunting knife into his hand. There’s a moment where Hannibal’s eyes and touch lingers on him. Will’s notices and Hannibal notices that he notices.

“Drink Will. It’s been my experience, and that of others, that patients coming out of a trance become dehydrated afterward,” Hannibal informs him. “Though no one knows why; one of life’s many mysteries.”

Will nods and looks into the water. Now that he mentions it, he does feel thirsty. Like he hasn’t drunk in days. He drains the glass in a few gulps. When Hannibal asks if he wants another, Will shakes his head.

He feels strange again. That bleeding reality feeling that starts with a ringing in his ears. Distortion in his vision. Like looking through a hole and seeing a different world. At this very moment, something is bubbling up out of the carpet behind Hannibal. Will finds himself hoping its blood and not sticky black tar. He didn’t see the Wendigo when he went this time...would it follow him into reality?

It’s black.

“Dammit,” Will blinks hard, trying to remove the image. It helps a little but then the tar resumes spreading until it’s touching Hannibal’s expensive shoes. The point of an antler starts to poke up out of the carpet.

“What do you see Will?”

_ See? _

“It’s nothing,” Will blinks and shakes his head again. He takes off his glasses and pinches at the top of his nose. “Too much wine.”

“Are you going to be ill, Will? The restroom is-”

“No, no. I’ll be fine,” Will opens his eyes and finds a sticky black hand grasping onto Hannibal’s leg. It’s pulling it’s way up. 

“Your breathing is elevated, Will,” Hannibal states and places two fingers on his wrist. “Your heart rate as well.”

“Just a hallucination,” Will swallows. The Wendigo is nearly out of the floor, standing directly behind and towering above Hannibal. 

_ It’s  _ **_not_ ** _ real.  _ __  
_ No one’s in danger.  _ _  
_ **_I’m_ ** __ not in danger. 

The creature thrusts a hand through Hannibal’s back, halting Will’s breath and blowing his eyes wide with shock. The doctor doesn’t seem to notice. It twists and Will hears bones cracking, sinew tearing, and blood spilling to the floor. It pulls until it rips the heart right out from Hannibal’s body, the effect visibly shaking Will. He still isn't breathing.

“Will?” Hannibal asks, an elevation in his tone. Concern from Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal’s heart isn’t beating in the Wendigo’s hand. He thinks it’s going to crush it but instead, it steps closer to Will. Kneels and looks curiously at him. This is the closest Will’s been to it. Ribs poking through the thin skin. Breath like that of a walking corpse. Solid black sclera staring back at him making it difficult to tell where exacctly its eyes are focused. 

It leans in real close, bracing a single bony hand on the sofa Will is sitting on. The heart drops from its hands and into Will’s lap with a wet plop. Sticky warmth seeping through his trousers. The Wendigo watches for a reaction as the heart begins to beat.

“Will?” Hannibal repeats and places a hand on his shoulder, close to his neck. 

It’s enough to jolt him into breathing again. Deep gasping breaths from fear. The blood is gone. So is the Wendigo. And the heart. But Hannibal’s hand stays on his neck, the only reassuring feeling in the room.

“Sorry,” Will blathers, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’m a-a...f-fucking train wreck.”

“No apologies necessary Will,” Hannibal tells him. “In fact, I feel I owe you one.”

“Oh?” Will huffs out a pathetic chuckle. “Why’s that?”

“It was only my intention to help you recover some memories, perhaps put some of your stress at ease. To give you some relief in knowing that not all things must be done alone. But it appears I’ve only caused you more distress, which was not my design. For that, I am truly sorry.”

“You were doing fine relaxing me with the wining and dining…” Will shakes his head with a laugh. “Then I went and killed the mood.”

“I’m not so certain you did  _ that _ ,” Hannibal disagrees. 

It’s only then that Will realizes he’s leaning into the hand warming his neck. Only then he realizes Hannibal’s fingers twitching at his hairline. It feels so good, only a inch away from being intimate. Will keeps expecting those fingers to slide, to tangle in his hair and dip his head back for a kiss but Hannibal doesn’t initiate. 

What is he waiting for? An invitation?

_ Of course he is. Hannibal would  _ _  
_ _ never be so rude as to assume… _

Will reaches up and places a hand firmly around Hannibal’s wrist, taking care not to wrinkle the fine suit jacket. He then slides that hand, Hannibal’s hand, into the hair at the base of his neck, closing his eyes to relish in the feeling. God, feels just like his dream those large grasping fingers.

_ I don’t know if I can be  _ _  
_ _ more obvious than that. _

Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t need more hints. He seizes the opportunity and Will’s thick locks of hair in his fingers. He brings his other hand to Will’s jaw line, tilting his head back. Hannibal’s eyes flit down to Will’s lips for a mere second before his mouth descends on him. 

If there are two words to describe Hannibal’s kiss those words would be possessive...and hungry. 

He didn’t think this would ever happen. Clean shaven and proper Doctor Hannibal Lecter pressing his pursed lips to that of grimy and rugged nutcase, Will Graham. Tightening his grip on Will’s mop of hair to tip him back further, slipping a hungry tongue in to taste a sample of what Will could offer. 

The hand on his jaw slides down a little to rest on his neck, Will’s pulse jumping at the touch. Hannibal bites at his lower lip, sucking it like a slice of sweet, fleshy fruit. Will lets out a sigh at the pressure of teeth on his lips. He could faint at his touch and finds his own hand reaching out to grasp at Hannibal’s suit, anything to bring them closer. But the doctor pulls away after a deep kiss and takes his hands off of Will.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Will, for stopping here,” he swallows, a victim of losing his own composure a little. 

_ You gotta be fucking kidding me.  _ _  
_ _ Now?! _

The look of objection is obvious on Will’s face. He doesn’t want to stop. Not now. Not until Hannibal’s hands touch more than his head or neck. Not until those dexterous fingers remove articles of clothing as deftly as he might peel an orange. At this moment in time, he wants nothing more than Hannibal to undo him. To pull him apart and devour him piece by delicious piece until he falls apart. 

“You’ve been drinking. And just underwent a stressful therapy procedure. You’re vulnerable, Will,” Hannibal comments and resists touching Will’s face again. He clenches his hand and pulls it away, much to his chagrin. “It would be impulsive and ill-considered to take this further in the state you are in. And I would not have you claim insobriety as your motivation by night’s end.”

It makes sense, logically. 

_ But my dick doesn’t give  _ _  
_ _ one shit about logic.  _

Will shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Right,” he says, a little peeved and more than a little put out. 

“Would you like me to drive you home Will?” Hannibal offers, but right now it’s not the kind of offer Will would like.

“No, I’ll call a cab,” Will huffs, putting on his jacket. “Thanks for dinner, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome, Will. When you’re feeling better, I hope we can do this again,” Hannibal nods with a small sympathetic smile. 

_ Yeah, well, we could have  _ _  
_ _ done it this time. _

Perhaps, Will’s a little bitter. And sexually frustrated. It’s been...years since he received a touch like that. Tasted a kiss like that. Felt his heart race under the fingers of another person. And with how much older Hannibal is, it’s nearly guaranteed that he’ll know what he’s doing. Experience guiding those hands on Will’s body. It could have been...

If he hadn’t had that last glass of wine would he have-

“It hardly matters now,” Will grumbles in the back of the cab. 

Now the only thing he has to look forward to is some time alone in his shower, with no Hannibal in sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	9. A Sample to be Tasted

It’s been weeks since Will and Hannibal have talked outside an official capacity. Of course he still shows up for his scheduled sessions but they talk only of Jack Crawford’s recent cases. The Lost Boys. The Angel Maker. Work, work, work.

He doesn’t bring up what happened that night at dinner. Neither of them do. They go so long without talking about it that Will begins to doubt that it ever did. And Hannibal hasn’t invited him to dinner again as his only guest.

_ Maybe it wasn’t real. _

_ How can you be sure? _

_ I can’t. That’s why it sucks.  _

_ Do you want it to be real? _

Now’s not the time to think about it. He has a murderer to catch. The man going around and cutting wings for ‘angels’ isn’t going to turn himself in. It doesn’t matter that each day in the field is a new experience in hallucinations. 

The Wendigo is everywhere. Usually a great distance away, hidden behind a tree or a pillar, just watching him. He can hear the dog monsters sniffing around outside of his view. For a frightening moment, he thinks a heart is beating in his satchel. It unnerves him enough that he takes the day off from teaching. That same day he goes to see Abigail Hobbs in the hospital.

Still comatose, with no end in sight. The nurses unofficially told him that she’s probably never going to wake up now. It’s been too long. Jack keeps holding out hope that she’ll wake. He wants someone to account for all the lives lost. He needs it. With all the evidence mounting against her, it’s likely she’ll be put away for helping her father.  

Hannibal is there visiting. He’s sitting in the chair asleep, holding her hand. The way his lids flicker say he’s dreaming, so Will doubts he hears him enter. He steps in and stands over Abigail’s body. 

Pale from lack of sun. No vitality in her skin. She’s practically a corpse already. Someone should just release her from this prison. It would be easy to end it. A simple matter of pulling the plug out of the wall but something makes him stop.

“What are you doing, Will?” Hannibal asks, his eyes open.

Will’s hand is just shy of touching the plug.

“Nothing,” he swallows. “Just checking.”

Whether Hannibal believes him or not is inconclusive as Will leaves just as quickly as he arrives. He doesn’t want to have to explain himself. After a few turns in the hall, he finds a restroom and hides in a stall. 

_ I was going to… _

_ Save her? _

“No, that’s not saving,” he grumbles, trying to remind himself. 

_ It’s murder.  _

_ Are you sure? _

_ It’s wrong.  _

_ Why’s that? _

_ It’s not just! _

He beats himself up more, scolds his own mind until he’s shaking with nerves. Telling himself what a monster he is for being excited about ending her. For looking on her slumbering body with eager anticipation. 

But she’s a person. Not some thing to be dispatched. She had thoughts, dreams, hopes. What was her favorite season? Did she like oranges? What had Abigail been afraid of? Would she have gone gently? Or would she have fought?

The guilt is terrible and heavy. He sits on the seat in the stall to rub his face and pull at his hair. To kill her as if those things didn’t matter...it felt disrespectful. Rude. On top of being immoral. 

If only he could talk to her. He’d know what to do. What she would have wanted. Maybe then...

A day later the Angel Maker is found strung up in a barn. He chose to take his own life, overcoming his fear of death and transcending into an angelic being. Because only mortals fear dying. It gives him something to think about as he heads home, having to stop constantly to clear his hallucinations.

He wonders how Jack feels about death. Alana. Hannibal. 

“Are you afraid to die, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks during one of their sessions. It’s the first instance in weeks of Will asking about something other than current cases but the Angel Maker has him thinking about strange things. About mortality and what it means to truly live.

“No,” Hannibal tells him and Will gives him a disbelieving look. “In fact, it’s the reminder that I could die at any moment that spurs me to appreciate life for what it is. When I do die, I will know I enjoyed my life to the fullest, never depriving myself of life’s luxuries.”

“But won’t you find it a waste? To die?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal sips his wine. “I’m content with what I’ve accomplished. If I died tomorrow, I would have not a single regret.”

“Not one?” Will asks. “I’d have a few. One immediate one comes to  mind” 

It’s quiet. The implication of their dinner night hanging in the air. They still haven’t talked about it. Will wonders if Hannibal was waiting for him to breach the conversation. If so, it might have been months before Will ever said anything if it hadn’t been for the Angel Maker killing himself.

"To what regret are you referring?" Hannibal asks.

“You know what, Han-” Will cuts himself off, not wanting to sound to informal. “Why haven’t you tried again? To kiss me?”

Hannibal pauses to consider the question and answer it accordingly.

“I wasn’t entirely certain you would remember, let alone that you would wish to continue,” Hannibal explains. “Since my behavior was inappropriate, I deemed it safer to wait for you to initiate contact again at your discretion, if ever.”

He was waiting this whole time?

“What if I never said anything?” Will asks incredulously. Would he have been content to never--

“Irrelevant as we are talking about it now,” says Hannibal.

“Dammit, Hannibal!” Will stood, his arms gesturing wildly. “How can you be so--What if I never got to--this is ridiculous! I can’t believe I’m losing my shit over kissing you! ONCE!”

“Is your regret that we  _ kissed _ , Will? Or that we kissed  _ once _ ?” Hannibal wonders.

“A little of both at the moment!” Will exclaims with an exasperated laugh. 

Will leans his arm against a bookcase and takes a deep breath while smacking his forehead to his fist. He can’t believe this. All bent out of shape because Hannibal was doing the right thing. The proper thing. Why is he even mad about it? By all means, he should be glad that the doctor is so considerate, especially since Will is more often than not, unhinged and in bad places to make reasonable decisions. 

“Well,” Hannibal stands and slowly steps towards Will. “I would not want you to have any regrets Will.”

He can feel that hand creep along his shoulder to his neck again. Hannibal squeezes a little to gauge Will’s reaction in case he might be reluctant. He’s not. 

“I cannot undo the first kiss. But we could remedy that it happened once. We could even continue now, if you so choose,” Hannibal whispers in his ear.

_ God, that voice. _

Will turns in Hannibal’s grasp and nods, looking down at the floor. It’s all the doctor needs. He presses Will against the bookshelf, pinning his arms high and crowding his body in close. With a tilt of his jaw, Hannibal presses his hungry lips to Will’s. 

He thought Hannibal to be all restraint from the way he talked before. Calm and collected. But with the way he’s devouring Will’s lips and tasting his mouth, he’d think the doctor has been wanting this for months, let alone the two weeks since they first kissed. Hannibal has admirable self-control. Will on the other hand…

He’s kissing back eagerly. And try as he may, he can’t get his hands back. They’re secure in Hannibal’s grip against the spines of his books. He can smell old paper, the flowers in a nearby vase, and Hannibal’s aftershave. Something sharp and intoxicating. It’s invigorating. He tries to grind against the body pinning him to show his willingness to go further. 

Hannibal feels it. He has to because Will feels, for a second, a hardness against his own. 

“Eager, Will?” Hannibal mouths his neck, grazing his teeth on the flesh but not biting down. Not yet anyway. 

“Aren’t you?” Will pants as Hannibal sucks hard on his neck. He ignores the Wendigo watching intently from the cracked door to the dining room. Instead, he closes his eyes to relish in the feel of hot lips on his skin.

_ Eat your heart out, motherfucker. _

Hannibal crushes his hips forward in a much better attempt at grinding, making Will gasp.  The friction. The pressure. It’s calculated and precise, just like everything Hannibal does. He does it again but slow and purposeful, his eyes taking in every reaction Will gives. And he keeps doing it to get more needy sighs from Will.

He doesn’t want to miss a single second to recall for later. 

“I enjoy taking my time, savoring the flavor of the moment,” Hannibal nibbles at his neckline. “Do you have any preferences Will?”

Does he seriously want to talk about this? Right now? It’s obvious that what he’s doing is fine, great even. He comes to the conclusion that Hannibal must enjoy watching Will stumble over his words because he’s still looking at Will for an answer. Likes watching him suffer. The sadist. Just as he’s about to open his mouth Hannibal grinds especially slow.

“Th-this i-is,” Will swallows back a moan. “This is f-fine.”

“You shouldn’t hold back Will,” Hannibal comments. He readjusts his hands so that one can hold both of Will’s. “Let me hear you.”

Hannibal’s grip is strong for only one hand, Will thinks. It’s the last thought through his head before he feels, in aching detail, a hand cup and caress his bulging crotch. After his initial gasp, he listens to each and every action Hannibal’s hand takes. His nails drawing down along the crotch seam. A button popping open with his thumb and forefinger in one smooth movement. A single finger slowly pulling the zipper down. It takes hours and no time at all. 

_ This is fucking  _ **_torture_ ** _. _

Hannibal grasps the edge of his pants, right at the hip, and pulls down slightly. It’s just enough to allow him access to his boxers. He slips one finger into the waistband. Then two. God, Will just wishes he’d rip them off. He’s so done with this polite shit, mostly because the anticipation is killing him. 

He slides his fingers across inside the waistband until he arrives at the other side of his hip, then pulls at his pants there. How many times has Will swallowed, expecting that hand to just dive down? And with Hannibal still nibbling and kissing his breath away, it’s amazing he’s still in one piece. 

“You are a remarkable shade of pink right now Will,” Hannibal comments, looking at his cheeks. 

“I’m s-sure,” Will breathes. Hannibal is pulling down his boxers an inch at a time, numbing his mind with the feel of fabric and flesh trailing down his hip.

Finally, Will is revealed into the cool air of the room, his cock practically springing forward out of his undergarments. He only worries now about how it looks. The thought never occurred to him before because he never cared. Is it...good looking? Will Hannibal think so?  Well, he hasn’t stopped so that must be a sign. 

Hannibal looks down but only for a second, enough to gather where and how to grab him because moments later he has Will in his hand.  He hasn’t been touched in...fucking...YEARS. That plus Hannibal’s intent eyes taking him in makes it feel more overwhelming than it should. Will can’t hold in moan while the doctor gives him a solid squeeze and it makes Hannibal smirk. He strokes gently, making Will’s knees go weak. 

“Do you enjoy being restrained, Will?” Hannibal asks but it feels like a question he already knows the answer to. He lets go of Will’s sensitive cock as it begins to drip pre-come. 

“Yes,” Will rolls his eyes back into his head. “Do you like torturing people?”

“I do,” Hannibal whispers in his ear, his voice deep and a little sinister. “Open your mouth Will.”

Hannibal’s fingers invade, touching his tongue, filling his panting mouth. He can taste salt on them and if he closes his eyes, he can imagine in striking detail Hannibal shoving Will down to his knees and taking the doctor’s cock in his whimpering mouth. If he has anything to say about it, they’ll do that next time they meet. Hell, he’d go to his knees now if Hannibal weren’t pinning him to the bookcase. He lets out a needy moan as Hannibal withdraws his now slick fingers.

Will almost cries out pitifully when Hannibal touches him again, this time with sticky saliva to coat him. It’s wet, and warm, and fuck, he’s going to lose it soon. Or he would if Hannibal wasn’t going so painfully slow as he strokes him again. It’s cruel but damn if he doesn’t love the way it feels to be manipulated. To be controlled. 

“What now, Will? Felatio perhaps?” Hannibal asks, his own face flushing a little at the sight of Will unraveling. 

“I-I’m already...falling apart,” Will shakes his head and moans when Hannibal’s thumb rubs over the tip. At this rate, he’s going to burst and all over Hannibal’s nice suit. 

A phone is ringing and it’s not Hannibal’s. It’s Will’s. Jack’s ringtone resounding out of Will’s coat pocket. The doctor eyes his pocket and Will shakes his head, hoping they can just ignore it. He’s so fucking close it hurts. Hannibal releases Will’s cock seconds before he can go over the edge. His panting practically a desperate cry tinged with frustration.

“Hello Jack,” Hannibal answers the phone from Will’s pocket. “I thought it may be important and Will is currently indisposed.” 

Hannibal presses his hips against Will’s swollen erection and it takes all he has not to make a sound. He bites into his lip and closes his eyes in an attempt to keep his composure.

“Yes. I shall inform him as soon as he returns.”

Hannibal clicks off the phone and drops it back into Will’s pocket. 

“Jack needs you at a crime scene. A shame,” Hannibal bites at Will’s neck. “I’m certain you would have tasted divine.”

“We can keep going,” Will pants. He comes desperately close to begging. Hannibal would probably love that. 

“As I said before, Will, I enjoy taking my time,” Hannibal he repeats. “Come now, you have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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